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UH^HBHiH 



THE 



CHILD AT HOME; 



THE PRINCIPLES OF FILIAL DUTY FA- 
MILIARLY ILLUSTRATED. 

1/ 

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT, 

AUTHOR OF 

THE MOTHER AT HOME," "JOSEPHINE," "MARIA ANTOINETTE. 

"KINGS AND QUEENS," "NAPOLEON," ETC. 



VERY GREATLY IMPROVED AND ENLARGED 



2$nt|) numerous 25njjrabmss. 



NEW YORK: 
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

329 Sl 331 PEARL STREET, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. A 1 

185 , N*'2~, 








Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by 

HARPER & BROTHERS, 
In the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New York. 



PREFACE. 

The Mother at Home, and its companion and 
counterpart, the Child at Home, were written sim- 
ply with the view of affording to mothers in the 
common walks of life, plain and simple instruction 
in respect to the right discharge of their maternal 
duties, and, at the same time, some practical aid in 
leading the minds of their children to proper views 
of their obligations to God, to their parents, and to 
one another. Although one of the volumes is ad- 
dressed nominally to the mother, and the other to 
the child, they are in fact each intended for both 
mothers and children. If a parent reads and ex- 
plains the Mother at Home to her children, they 
will derive great benefit from the exercise, as they 
will thus be taught to realize something of the nature 
and the weight of the responsibilities, the duties, 
and the cares which such a trust as that which is 



VI PREFACE. 

committed to a mother necessarily brings. They 
will thus the more readily acquiesce in the measures 
adopted for their good, and submit to the authority 
which ought to be exercised over them ; and they 
may be expected also to imbibe, in some degree, the 
Christian spirit which the book inculcates. On the 
other hand, the Child at Home is intended quite as 
much to afford to mothers a practical exemplifica- 
tion of the spirit and manner by which their instruc- 
tions to their children should be characterized, as to 
act directly upon the children themselves ; and its ■ 
effect even in this last point of view will be greatly 
enhanced, if the mother, instead of giving her chil- 
dren the book, should read it to them herself, or 
allow them to read it aloud to her, chapter by chap- 
ter, at some calm and silent hour, in the evening or 
upon the Sabbath, when the hearts of the listeners 
may be open to salutary impressions, and when the 
instructions of the printed page may be accompanied 
by the kind and familiar explanations of the living 
teacher. 

The volumes thus, though under different names, 
aim at one and the same end, and are intended as 
the counterparts and companions of each other. 



r R E F A C E . Vll 



They regard the family as one, — and in explaining 
and enforcing the relative duties of parents and chil- 
dren, they are intended to exert upon the two 
classes for which they are designed, a common and 
simultaneous influence. 

Since the original publication of these works, 
they have been translated into many different lan- 
guages, and have been circulated very extensively 
throughout the Christian world. The favor with 
which they have thus been regarded has led to the 
republication of them at this time in a new and 
greatly improved form. The works have been care- 
fully revised, and much enlarged, and the various 
scenes and incidents described in them are illustrated 
with numerous engravings, which, it is hoped, will 
aid in making them attractive both to parents and 
children. 



CONTENTS. 

■*-++ 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Responsibility, 11 

II. — Deception, 37 

III. — Obedience, 58 

IV. — Gratitude, 94 

V. — Conscientiousness, 115 

VI. — Religious Truth, 139 

VII.— The Savior, . . . . . .169 

VIII. — Every-day Duty, 205 

IX.— Study, 240 

X. — Traits of Character, 264 

XL — Traits of Character — continued, . . 285 
XII. — Conclusion, 307 



ENGRAVINGS 



The Court, . 
The Pirates, 
The Cell, 
The Stolen Visit 
The Cake, 
The Party, 
The Prison, . 
Casabianca, 
Watchful Care, 
Helplessness, 
The Robbery, 
The VorAGE, 
The Lost Child, 
Child Found, 
Coasting, 
The Letter, 
The Greenlander 
The Play-ground, 
The Duel, 
The Handcartman, 
The Sailor Boy, 
The Orchard, . 
The Gun, 
Mischief, . 
Leaving Home, 
The Hotel, 



PAGE 
11 

22 
25 

41 
52 
63 
68 
79 
100 
106 
129 
140 
160 
163 
174 
190 
193 
216 
223 
255 
261 
265 
276 
296 
308 
315 







THE CHILD AT HOME. 



CHAPTER I. 

RESPONSIBILITY. 



In large cities there are so many persons 
guilty of crimes, that it is necessary to have a 
court in session every day to try those who 
are accused of breaking the laws. This court 



12 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

is called the Police Court. If you should go 
into the room where it is held, you would see 
the officers bringing in, one after another, mis- 
erable and wicked creatures to be tried ; and 
after the officers had stated and proved the 
crimes charged against them, the judge would 
command them to be led away to prison. In 
going away, they would look so wretched that 
you would be shocked in seeing them. 

One morning a poor woman came into the 
Police Court in Boston. Her eyes were red 
with weeping, and she seemed to be borne 
down with sorrow. Behind her followed two 
men, leading in her daughter. 

" Here, sir," said a man to the judge, " is a 
girl who conducts so badly that her mother can 
not live with her, and she must be sent to the 
House of Correction. " 

" My good woman," said the judge, " what is 
it that your daughter does which renders it so 
uncomfortable to live with her ?" 

" Oh, sir," she replied, " it is hard for a mother 
to accuse her own daughter, and to be the 
means of sending her to the prison. But she 
conducts in such a manner as to destroy all the 
peace of my life. She has such a temper, that 
she sometimes threatens to kill me, and she 
does every thing to make my life wretched." 



RESPONSIBILITY. 13 



The unhappy woman could say no more. 
Her heart seemed bursting with grief, and she 
wept aloud. The heart of the judge was 
moved with pity, and the bystanders could 
hardly refrain from weeping with this afflicted 
mother. But there stood the hard-hearted 
girl, unmoved. She looked upon the sorrows 
of her parent in sullen silence. She was so 
hardened in sin, that she seemed perfectly in- 
sensible to pity or affection. And yet she was 
miserable. Her countenance showed that pas- 
sion and malignity filled her heart, and that the 
thought of the prison, to which she knew she 
must go, filled her with rage. 

The judge turned from the afflicted mother, 
the sounds of whose sobs filled the room, and, 
asking a few questions of the witnesses, who 
testified to the daughter's ingratitude and cru- 
elty, ordered her to be led away to the House 
of Correction. The officers of justice took 
her by the arm, and conducted her to her 
gloomy cell. Her lonely and sorrowing mother 
went weeping home to her abode of penury 
and desolation. Her own daughter was the 
viper which had stung her bosom. Her own 
child was the wretch who was filling her heart 
with sorrow. 

And while I now write, this guilty daughter 



14 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

is occupying the gloomy cell of the prison., and 
this widowed mother is in her silent dwelling, 
in loneliness and grief! And oh, if you, who 
read these pages, could see that mother and 
that daughter now, you might form some feeble 
idea of the consequences of disobedience ; you 
might see how unutterable is the sorrow which 
a wicked child may bring upon herself and 
upon her parents. It is not easy, in this case, 
to judge which is the most unhappy, the mother 
or the child. The mother is broken-hearted at 
home. She is alone and friendless. All her 
hopes are most cruelly destroyed. She loved 
her daughter, and hoped that she would live 
to be her friend and comfort. But instead of 
that, she became her curse, and is bringing her 
mother's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. And 
then look at the daughter — guilty and aban- 
doned — oh, who can tell how miserable she 
must be ! 

Such is the grief which children may bring 
upon themselves and their parents. You prob- 
ably have never thought of this very much. I 
write this book that you may think of it, and 
that you may, by obedience and affection, make 
your parents happy, and be happy yourselves. 

This wicked girl was once a playful child, 
innocent and happy. Her mother looked upon 



RESPONSIBILITY. 15 

her with most ardent love, and hoped that her 
dear daughter would live to be her companion 
and friend. At first she ventured to disobey- 
in some trifling thing. She still loved her 
mother, and would have been struck with hor- 
ror at the thought of being guilty of the crimes 
which she afterward committed. But she 
went on from bad to worse, every day growing 
more disobedient, until she made her poor 
mother so miserable that she almost wished to 
die, and till she became so miserable herself, 
that life must have been a burden. You think, 
perhaps, that you never shall be so unkind and 
wicked as she finally became. But if you 
begin as she began, by trifling disobedience, 
and little acts of unkindness, you may soon be 
as wicked as she, and make your parents as 
unhappy as is her poor broken-hearted mother. 

Persons never become so very wicked all at 
once. They go on from step to step, in disobe- 
dience and ingratitude, till they lose all feeling, 
and can see their parents weep, and even die 
in their grief, without a tear. 

Perhaps, one pleasant day, this mother sent 
her little daughter to school. She took her 
books, and walked along, admiring the beautiful 
sunshine, and the green and pleasant fields. 
She stopped one moment to gather a flower, 



16 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

again to pursue a butterfly, and again to listen 
to a little robin, pouring out its clear notes 
upon the bough of some lofty tree. It seemed 
so pleasant to be playing in the fields, that she 
was unwilling to go promptly to school. She 
thought it would not be very wrong to play a 
little while. Thus she commenced. The next 
day she ventured to chase the butterflies farther, 
and to rove more extensively through the fields 
in search of flowers. And as she played by the 
pebbles in the clear brook of rippling water, she 
forgot how fast the time was passing. And 
when she afterward hastened to school, and was 
asked why she was so late, to conceal her fault 
she was guilty of falsehood, and said that her 
mother wanted her at home. Thus she ad- 
vanced rapidly in crime. Her lessons were 
neglected. She loved the fields better than her 
book, and would often spend the whole morning 
idle, under the shade of some tree, when her 
mother thought her safe in school. Having 
thus become a truant and a deceiver, she was 
prepared for any crimes. Good children would 
not associate with her, and consequently she 
had to choose the worst for her companions and 
her friends. She learned wicked language ; she 
was rude and vulgar in her manners ; she in- 
dulged ungovernable passion ; and at last grew 



RESPONSIBILITY. 17 

so bad, that when her family afterward removed 
to the city, the House of Correction became her 
ignominious home. And there she is now, 
guilty and wretched. And her poor mother, in 
her solitary dwelling, is weeping over her daugh- 
ter's disgrace. Who can comfort such a moth- 
er ? Where is there any earthly joy to which 
she can look ? 

Children generally do not think how much 
the happiness of their parents depends upon 
their conduct. But you now see how very un- 
happy you can make them. And is there a 
child who reads this book, who would be will- 
ing to be the cause of sorrow to his father and 
his mother ? After all that they have done for 
you, in taking care of you when an infant, in 
watching over you when sick, in giving you 
clothes to wear, and food to eat, can you be so 
ungrateful as to make them unhappy ? You 
have all read the story of the kind man, who 
found a viper lying upon the ground almost 
dead with cold. He took it up and placed it in 
his bosom to warm it, and to save its life. And 
what did that viper do? He killed his bene- 
factor ! Vile, vile reptile ! Yes ! as soon as 
he was warm and well, he stung the bosom of 
his kind preserver, and killed him. 

But that ch ; ld is a worse viper who, by his 



18 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

ingratitude, will sting the bosom of his father 
or mother ; who by disobedience and unkind- 
ness, will destroy their peace, and thus dread- 
fully repay them for all their love and care. 
God will not forget the sins of such a child. 
His eye will follow you to see your sin, and his 
arm will reach you to punish. He has said, 
Honor your father and your mother. And the 
child who does not do this, must meet with the 
displeasure of God, and must be forever shut 
out from heaven. Oh, how miserable must this 
wicked girl now be, locked up in the gloomy 
prison ! But how much more miserable will 
she be when God calls her to account for all her 
sins ! — when, in the presence of all the angels, 
the whole of her conduct is brought to light, 
and God says to her, " Depart from me, ye 
cursed !" As she goes away from the presence 
of the Lord, to the gloomy prisons of eternal 
despair, she will then feel a degree of remorse 
which I can not describe to you. It is painful 
to think of it. Ah, wretched, wretched girl ! 
Little are you aware of the woes which you 
are preparing for yourself. I hope that no child 
who reads these pages will ever feel these woes. 
You have just read that it is in your power 
to make your parents very unhappy ; and you 
have seen how unhappy one wicked girl made 



RESPONSIBILITY. 19 



her poor mother. I might tell you many such 
melancholy stories, all of which would be true. 
A few years ago there was a boy who began 
to be disobedient to his parents in little things. 
But every day he grew worse, — more disobe- 
dient, more willful, and more troublesome. He 
would run away from school, and thus he grew 
up in ignorance. He associated with bad boys, 
and learned to swear and to lie, and to steal. 
He became so bad that his parents could do 
nothing with him. Every body who knew him, 
said, " That boy is preparing for the gallows." 
He was the pest of the neighborhood. 

At last he ran away from home, without let- 
ting his parents know that he was going. He 
had heard of the sea, and thought it would be a 
very pleasant thing to be a sailor. But noth- 
ing is pleasant to the wicked. When he came 
to the sea-shore, where there were a large num- 
ber of ships, it was some time before any cap- 
tain would employ him, because he knew noth- 
ing about a ship or the sea. There was no one 
there who was his friend, or who pitied him, 
and he sat down and cried bitterly, wishing that 
he was at home again, but ashamed to go back. 
At last a sea captain came along, and hired him 
to go on a distant voyage ; and as he knew 
nothing about the rigging of a vessel, he was 



20 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

ordered to do the most servile work on board. 
He swept the decks and the cabin, and helped 
the cook, and was the servant of all. He had 
the poorest food to eat he ever ate in his life. 
And when night came, and he was so tired that 
he could hardly stand, he had no soft bed upon 
which to lie, but could only wrap a blanket 
around him, and throw himself down anywhere 
to get a little sleep. 

This unhappy boy had acquired so sour a 
disposition, and was so disobliging, that all the 
sailors disliked him. and would do every thing 
they could to tease him. When there was a 
storm, and he was pale with fear, and the ves- 
sel was rocking in the wind, and pitching over 
the waves, they would make him climb the 
mast, and laugh to see how terrified he was, as 
the mast reeled to and fro, and the wind almost 
blew him into the raging ocean. Often did 
this poor boy get into some obscure part of the 
ship, and weep as he thought of the home he 
had forsaken. He thought of his father and 
mother, how kind they had been to him, and 
how unkind and ungrateful he had been to them, 
and how unhappy he had made them by his 
misconduct. But these feelings soon wore 
away. Familiarity with sea-life gave him 
courage, and he became inured to its hardships. 



RESPONSIBILITY. 21 

Constant intercourse with the most profligate 
and abandoned, gave strength and inveteracy 
to his sinful habits ; and before the voyage had 
terminated, he was reckless of danger, and as 
hardened and unfeeling as the most depraved 
on board the ship. This boy commenced with 
disobedience in little things, and grew worse 
and worse, till he forsook his father and his 
mother, and was prepared for the surrender of 
every virtuous principle, and the commission 
of any crime. But the eye of God was upon 
him, following him wherever he went, and 
marking all his iniquities. An hour of retribu- 
tion was approaching. It is not necessary for 
me to trace out to you his continued steps of 
progress in sin. When on shore, he passed his 
time in haunts of dissipation. And several 
years rolled on in this way, he himself grow- 
ing more and more hardened, and his aged pa- 
rents, in their loneliness, weeping over the ruin 
of their guilty and wandering son. 

One day an armed vessel sailed into one of 
the principal ports of the United States, ac- 
companied by another, which had been cap- 
tured. When they arrived at the wharf, it 
was found that the vessel taken was a pirate. 
Multitudes flocked down upon the wharf to see 
the pirates as they should be led off to the 



22 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



prison, there to await their trial. Soon they 
were brought out of the ship, with their hands 




THE PIRATES. 



astened together with chains, and led through 
the streets. Ashamed to meet the looks of 
honest men, and terrified with the certainty of 
condemnation and execution, they walked along 
with downcast eyes and trembling limbs. 
Among the number was seen the unhappy and 
guilty boy, now grown to be a young man, 
whose history we are relating. He was locked 



RESPONSIBILITY. 23 



up in the dismal dungeon of a prison. The 
day of trial came. Pale and trembling, he was 
brought before the judge. He was clearly 
proved guilty, and sentenced to be hung. Again 
he was carried back to his prison, there to re- 
main till the hour for his execution should ar- 
rive. News was sent to his already broken- 
hearted parents, that their son had been 
condemned as a pirate, and was soon to be 
hung. The tidings were almost too much for 
them to endure. In an agony of feeling which 
can not be described, they wept together. 
They thought of the hours of their child's in- 
fancy, when they watched over him in sickness, 
and soothed him to sleep. They thought how 
happy they felt when they saw the innocent 
smile play upon his childish cheek. They 
thought of the joy they then anticipated in his 
opening years, and of the comfort which they 
hoped he would be to them in their declining 
days. And now to think of him, a hardened 
criminal, in the murderer's cell ! — Oh, it was 
too much, too much for them to bear. It 
seemed as though their hearts would burst. 
Little did they think, when, with so much af- 
fection they caressed their infant child, that he 
would be the curse of their life, embittering all 
their days, and bringing down their gray hairs 



24 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

with sorrow to the grave. Little did they think, 
that his first trifling acts of disobedience would 
lead on to such a career of misery and of crime. 
But the son was sentenced to die, and the pen- 
alty of the law could not be avoided. His own 
remorse and his parents' tears could be of no 
avail. Agonizing as it would be to their feel- 
ings, they felt that they must go and see their 
son before he should die. 

What a hard alternative it was that was pre- 
sented to these heart-broken parents ! It was a 
dreadful thing to leave him alone in his cell, and 
it would he a dreadful thing to go to see him. 
They, however, decided to go. 

One morning, a gray-headed man, and an 
aged and infirm woman, were seen walking 
along, with faltering footsteps, through the street 
which led to the prison. It was the heart- 
broken father and mother of this unnatural 
child. When they came in sight of the gloomy 
granite walls and iron-grated windows of this 
dreary abode, they could hardly proceed, so 
overwhelming were the feelings which pressed 
upon their minds. When arrived at the door 
of the prison, the aged father, supporting upon 
his arm the weeping and almost fainting mother, 
told the jailer who they were, and requested 



RESPONSIBILITY. 



25 



permission to see 
their son. Even 
the jailer, accus- 
tomed as he was 
to scenes of suffer- 
ing, could not wit- 
ness this exhibition 
of parental grief 
without being mov- 
ed to tears. He led 
the parents through 
the stone galleries 
of the prison, till 
they came to the 




THE CELL. 



iron door of the cell in which their son was 
confined. As he turned the key with all his 
strength, the heavy bolt flew back, and he 
opened the door of the cell. Oh, what a sight 
for a father and a mother to gaze upon ! There 
was just enough light in this gloomy abode to 
show them their son, sitting in the corner on 
the stone floor, pale and emaciated, and loaded 
with chains. The moment the father beheld 
the pallid features of his long-absent soji, he 
raised his hands in the agony of his feelings, 
and fell fainting at his feet. The mother burst 
into loud exclamations of grief, as she clasped 
her son, guilty and wretched as he was, to her 



26 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

bosom. Oh, who can describe this scene ! 
Who can conceive the anguish which wrung 
the hearts of these afflicted parents ! And it 
was their own boy, whom they had loved and 
cherished, who had brought all this woe upon 
them. 

I can not describe to you the scene which 
ensued. Even the very jailer could not bear 
it, and he wept aloud. At last he was compel- 
led to tear the parents away ; and it was agon- 
izing indeed to leave their son in such a situa- 
tion, soon to be led to an ignominious death. 
They would gladly have stayed and died with 
their guilty child. But it was necessary that 
they should depart ; and, the jailer having closed 
the door and turned the massive bolt, they left 
the unhappy criminal in his cell. Oh, what 
would he have given, again to be innocent and 
free ! The parents returned to their home, to 
weep by day and by night, and to have the 
image of their guilty son disturbing every mo- 
ment of peace, and preventing the possibility 
of joy. The day of execution soon arrived, and 
their son was led to the gallows, and lanched 
into eternity. And, crimsoned with guilt, he 
went to the bar of God, there to answer for all 
the crimes of which he had been guilty, and for 
all the woes that he had caused. 



RESPONSIBILITY. 27 



You see, then, how great are your responsi- 
bilities as a child. You have thought, perhaps, 
that you have no power over your parents, and 
that you are not accountable for the sorrow 
which your conduct may cause them. Think 
you that God will hold this child guiltless for all 
the sorrow which he caused his father and his 
mother ? And think you that God will hold 
any child guiltless, who shall, by his misconduct, 
make his parents unhappy ? No. You must 
answer to God for every thing that you do, 
which gives your parents pain. And there is 
no sin greater in the sight of God than that of 
an ungrateful child. I have shown you, in the 
two illustrations which you have just read, how 
much the happiness of your parents depends 
upon your conduct. Every day you are pro- 
moting their joy or their sorrow. And every 
act of disobedience, or of ingratitude, however 
trifling it may appear to you, is, in the eyes of 
your Maker, a sin which can not pass unnoticed. 

Do you ask, Why does God consider the in- 
gratitude of children as a sin of peculiar aggra- 
vation ? I reply, Because you are under pecu- 
liar obligation to love and obey your parents. 
They have loved you when you could not love 
them. They have taken care of you when you 
could not reward them. They have passed 



28 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

sleepless nights in listening to your cries, and 
weary days in watching over you, when you 
could neither express thanks nor feel grateful. 
And after they have done all this, is it a small 
sin for you to disobey them and make them un- 
happy ? 

And indeed you can do nothing to make 
yourself so unhappy as to indulge in disobe- 
dience, and to cherish a spirit of ingratitude. 
You never see a child who does this, happy. 
Look at him at home, and you will find that in- 
stead of being light-hearted and cheerful, he is 
sullen and morose. He sits down by the fireside 
in a winter evening, but the evening fireside af- 
fords no joy to him. He knows that his parents 
are grieved at his conduct. He loves nobody, 
and feels that nobody loves him. There he sits, 
silent and sad, making himself miserable by his 
own misconduct. The disobedient boy or girl 
is always unhappy. You know how different 
the dispositions of children are. Some are al- 
ways pleasant and obliging, and you love their 
company. They seem happy when they are 
with you, and they make you happy. Now you 
will almost always find that such children are 
obedient to their parents. They are happy at 
home, as well as abroad. God has in almost 
every case connected enjoyment with duty, and 



RESPONSIBILITY. 29 



sorrow with sin. But in no case is this con- 
nection more intimate, than in the duty which 
children owe their parents. And to every child 
who reads this book, I would say, If you wish 
to be happy, you must be good. Always re- 
member this. Let no temptation induce you 
for a moment to disobey. The more ardently 
you love your parents, the more ardently will 
they love you. But if you are ungrateful and 
disobedient, childhood will pass away in sorrow ; 
all the virtuous will dislike you, and you will 
have no friends worth possessing. When you 
arrive at mature age, and enter upon the active 
duty of life, you will have acquired those feel- 
ings which will deprive you of the affection of 
your fellow-beings, and you will probably go 
through the world unbeloved and unrespected. 
Can you be willing so to live ? 

The following account, written by one who, 
many years after her mother's death, visited 
her grave, forcibly describes the feelings which 
the remembrance of the most trifling act of 
ingratitude will, under such circumstances, 
awaken. 

" It was thirteen years since my mother's 
death, when, after a long absence from my na- 
tive village, I stood beside the sacred mound, 
beneath which I had seen her buried. Since 



30 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

that mournful period, a great change had come 
over me. My childish years had passed away, 
and with them my youthful character. The 
world was altered too ; and as I stood at mv 
mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I 
was the same thoughtless, happy creature, 
whose cheeks she so often kissed in an excess 
of tenderness. But the varied events of thir- 
teen years had not effaced the remembrance 
of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had 
seen her but yesterday — as the blessed sound 
of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. 
The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood 
were brought back so distinctly to my mind, 
that, had it not been for one bitter recollection, 
the tears that I shed would have been gentle 
and refreshing. The circumstance may seem 
a trifling one, but the thought of it now pains 
my heart, and I relate it, in order that those 
children who have parents to love them may 
learn to value them as they ought. 

" My mother had been ill a long time, and I 
became so accustomed to her pale face and 
weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, 
as children usually are. At first, it is true, I 
sobbed violently ; but when, day after day, I 
returned from school, and found her the same, 
I began to believe that she would always be 



RESPONSIBILITY. 31 



spared to me. But they told me she would 
die. 

" One day, when I had lost my place in the 
class, and had done my work wrong side out- 
ward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I 
went to my mother's chamber. She was paler 
than usual, but she met me with the same affec- 
tionate smile that always welcomed my return. 
Alas, when I look back through the lapse of 
thirteen years, I think my heart must have been 
of stone not to have been melted by it. She 
requested me to go down stairs and bring her a 
glass of water. I pettishly asked why she did 
not call a domestic to do it. With a look of 
mild reproach, which I shall never forget, if I 
live to be a hundred years old, she said, ' And 
will not my daughter bring a glass of water for 
her poor sick mother ?' 

"I went and brought her the water, but I did 
not do it kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing 
her, as I was wont to do, I set the glass down 
very quickly, and left the room. After playing 
about a short time, I went to bed without bid- 
ding my mother good night. But when alone 
in my room, in darkness and in silence, I re- 
membered how pale she looked, and how her 
voice trembled when she said, ■ Will not my 
daughter bring a glass of water for her poor 



32 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

sick mother?' I could not sleep. I stole into 
her chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk 
into an easy slumber, and they told me that I 
must not waken her. I did not tell any one 
what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, re- 
solved to rise early in the morning, and tell her 
how sorry I was for my conduct. 

" The sun was shining bright when I awoke ; 
and, hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my 
mother's chamber. She was dead ! She never 
spoke more — never smiled upon me again — and 
when I touched the hand that used to rest upon 
my head in blessing, it was so cold that it made 
me shudder. I bowed down by her side, and 
sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought 
then that I might well wish to die, and be buried 
with her ; and, old as I now am, I would give 
worlds, were they mine to give, could my moth- 
er but have lived to tell me that she forgave my 
childish ingratitude. But I can not call her 
back ; and when I stand by her grave, and 
whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the 
memory of that reproachful look which she 
gave me will bite like a serpent and sting like 
an adder." 

And when your mother dies, do you not 
think that you will feel remorse for every un- 
kind word that you have uttered, and for every 



RESPONSIBILITY. 33 



act of ingratitude ? Your beloved parents must 
soon die. You will probably be led into their 
darkened chamber, to see them lying pale and 
helpless on their dying bed. Oh, how will you 
feel in that solemn hour ! All your past life 
will come to your mind, and you will think that 
you would give worlds, if you could blot out 
the remembrance of past ingratitude. You will 
think that, if your father or mother should only 
get well, you would never do any thing to grieve 
them again. But the hour for them to die must 
come. You may weep as though your heart 
would break, but it will not recall the past, and 
it will not delay their death. They must die ; 
and you will probably gaze upon their cold and 
lifeless countenances in the coffin. You will 
follow them to the grave, and see them buried 
forever from your sight. Oh, how unhappy 
you will feel, if you then have to reflect upon 
your misconduct ! The tears that you will shed 
over their graves will be the more bitter, be- 
cause you will feel that, perhaps, your own mis- 
conduct hastened their death. 
; But perhaps you will die before your parents 
do. If you go into the grave-yard, you will see 
the graves of many children. You know that 
the young are liable to die, as well as the old. 
And what must be the feelings of the dying 
C 



34 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

child, who knows that he is going to appear be- 
fore God in judgment, and yet feels conscious 
that he has been unkind to his parents ! Oh, 
such a child must fear to go into the presence 
of his Maker. He must know that God will 
never receive into heaven children who have 
been so wicked. I have seen manv children 
die. And I have seen some, who had been 
very amiable and pleasant all their lives, when 
they came to die, feel grieved that they had not 
been more careful to make their parents happy. 
I knew one affectionate little girl, who was 
loved by all who knew her. She very seldom 
did any thing which was displeasing to her pa- 
rents. But one day she was taken sick. The 
physician was called ; but she grew worse and 
worse. Her parents watched over her with 
anxiety and tears, but still her fever raged, and 
death drew nearer. At last all hopes of her re- 
covery were over, and it was known that she 
must die. Then did this little girl, when she 
felt that she must leave her parents forever, 
mourn that she had ever done any thing to give 
them pain. The most trifling act of disobe- 
dience, and the least unkindness of which she 
had ever been guilty, then came fresh into her 
mind, and she could not die in peace till she had 
called her father and her mother to her bedside, 



RESPONSIBILITY. 35 

and implored their forgiveness. If so obliging 
and affectionate a little girl as this felt so deeply 
in view of the past, when called upon to die, 
how agonizing must be the feelings which will 
crowd upon the heart of the wicked and diso- 
bedient child who has filled her parents' heart 
with sorrow ! 

But you must also remember that there is a 
day of judgment to come. You must appear 
before God to answer for everything you have 
done or thought while in this world. Oh, how 
will the ungrateful child then feel ! Heaven 
will be before him, in all its beauty and bliss, 
but he can not enter. 

" Those holy gates forever bar 
Pollution, sin, and shame." 

He has, by his ingratitude, made a home on 
earth unhappy, and God will not permit him to 
destroy the happiness of the homes in heaven. 

He will see all the angels in their holiness 
and their joy, but he can not be permitted to 
join that blessed throng. With his ungrateful 
heart he would but destroy their enjoyment. 
The frown of God must be upon him, and he 
must depart to that wretched world where all 
the wicked are assembled. There he must live 



36 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



in sorrows which have no end. Oh, children, 
how great are your responsibilities ! The hap- 
piness of your parents depends upon your con- 
duct. And your ingratitude may fill your lives 
with sorrow, and your eternity with woe. Will 
you not, then, read this book with care, and 
pray that God will aid you to obey its direc- 
tions, that your homes on earth may be joyful, 
and that you may be prepared for happier homes 
beyond the stars ? 






CHAPTER II 



DECEPTION 



Probably nearly all who read this book have 
heard the story of George Washington and his 
hatchet. 

George, when a little boy, had received from 
his father a hatchet, and, much pleased with his 
present, he walked around the house trying its 
keen edge upon every thing which came within 
his reach. At last he came to a favorite pear- 
tree of his father's, and began, with great dex- 
terity, to try his skill in felling trees. After 
hacking upon the bark until he had completely 
spoiled the tree, he became tired, and went into 
the house. Before long, his father, passing by, 
beheld his beautiful tree entirely ruined ; and, 
entering the house, he earnestly asked who had 
been guilty of the act. For a moment George 
trembled and hesitated. He was strongly 
tempted to deny that he knew any thing about 
it. But summoning all his courage, he replied, 
" Father, I can not tell a lie. I cut it with my 



38 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

hatchet." His father clasped him in his arms, 
and said, " My dear boy, I would rather lose a 
thousand trees than have my son a liar." 

This little anecdote shows that George Wash- 
ington, when a boy, was too brave and noble to 
tell a lie. He had rather be punished than be 
so mean and degraded as to utter a falsehood. 
He did wrong to cut the pear-tree, though, per- 
haps, he did not know the extent of the injury 
that he was doing. But had he denied that he 
did it, he would have been a cowardly and dis- 
graceful liar. His father would have been 
ashamed of him, and would never have known 
when to believe him. If little George Wash- 
ington had told a lie then, it is by no means im- 
probable that he would have gone on from false- 
hood to falsehood, till every body would have 
despised him. And he would thus have become 
a disgrace to his parents and friends, instead of 
a blessing to his country and the world. No 
bo}', who has any degree of that noble spirit 
1 which George Washington had, will tell a lie. It 
is one of the most degrading of sins. There is 
no one who does not regard a liar with contempt. 

Almost always, when a lie is told, two sins 
are committed. The first is, the child has done 
something which he knows to be wrong. And 
the second is, that he has not courage enough 



DECEPTION. 



to admit it, and tells a lie to hide his fault. 
And, therefore, when a child tells a lie, you 
may always know that that child is a coward. 
George Washington was a brave man. When 
duty called him, he feared not to meet danger 
and death. He would march to the mouth of 
the cannon in the hour of battle ; he would ride 
through the field when bullets were flying in 
every direction, and strewing the ground with 
the dead, and not a nerve would tremble. Now, 
we see that George Washington was brave when 
a boy, as well as when a man. He scorned to 
tell a lie, and, like a noble-hearted boy as he 
was, he honestly avowed the truth. Every 
body admires courage, and every body despises 
cowardice. The liar, whether he be a boy or 
a man, is looked upon with contempt. 

Cases will occur in which you will be strongly 
tempted to say that which is false. But if you 
yield to the temptation, how can you help de- 
spising yourself? A little girl once came into 
the house and told her mother something which 
was very improbable. Those who were sitting 
in the room with her mother did not believe her, 
for they did not know the character of the little 
girl. But the mother replied at once, " I have 
no doubt that it is true, for I never knew my 
daughter to tell a lie." Is there not something 



40 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

noble in having a character like this ? Must 
not that girl have felt happy in the conscious- 
ness of thus possessing her mother's entire con- 
fidence ? Oh, how different must have been 
her feelings from those of the child whose word 
can not be believed, and who is regarded by 
every one with suspicion ! Shame, shame on 
the child who has not magnanimity enough to 
tell the truth. 

God will not allow such sins to go unpun- 
ished. Even in this world the consequences 
are generally felt. God has given every person 
a conscience, which approves that which is 
right, and condemns that which is wrong. 
When we do any thing wrong, our consciences 
punish us for it, and we are unhappy. When 
we do any thing that is right, the approval of 
conscience is a reward. Every day you feel 
the power of this conscience approving or con- 
demning what you do. Sometimes a person 
thinks that if he does wrong, and it is not found 
out, he will escape punishment. But it is not 
so. He will be punished whether it is found 
out or not. Conscience will punish him if no 
one else does. 

There was once a boy whose father sent him 
to ride a few miles, on an errand, and direct- 
ed him particularly not to stop by the way. It 



DECEPTION. 



41 



was a beautiful and sunny morning in the 
spring ; and as the boy rode along by the green 
fields, and heard the singing of the birds as they 
flew from tree to tree, he felt as light-hearted 
and happy as they. After doing his errand, 
however, as he was returning by the house 
where two of his friends and playmates lived, 
he thought he could not resist the temptation 
just to call a moment to see them. He thought 
that there would be no great harm if he merely 
stopped a minute or two, and his parents would 



"Ni 




THE STOLEN VISIT. 



42 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

never know it. Here commenced his sin. He 
stopped, and was led to remain longer and long- 
er, till he found that he had passed two hours 
there in play. Then, with a troubled con- 
science, he mounted his horse, and set his face 
toward home. The fields looked as green, and 
the skies as bright and cloudless, as when he 
rode along in the morning ; but, oh, how differ- 
ent were his feelings ! Then he was innocent 
and happy ; now he was guilty and wretched. 
He tried to feel easy, but he could not ; con- 
science reproached him with his sin. He rode 
sadly along, thinking what excuse he should 
make to his parents for his long absence, when 
at length he saw his father, at a distance, com- 
ing to meet him. His father, fearing that some 
accident had happened, had left home in search 
of his son. The boy trembled and turned pale 
as he saw his father approaching, and hesitated 
whether he had better confess the truth at once, 
and ask forgiveness, or endeavor to hide the 
crime with a lie. Oh, how much better it 
would have been for him if he had acknowl- 
edged the truth ! How much sooner would he 
have been restored to peace ! But one sin al- 
most always leads to another. When this kind 
father met his son with a smile, the boy said, 
" Father, I lost the road, and it took me some 



DECEPTION. 43 



time to get back again, and that is the reason 
why I have been gone so long." 

His father had never known his son to be 
guilty of falsehood before, and was so happy to 
find him safe, that he did not doubt that what 
he said was true. But, oh, how guilty, and 
ashamed, and wretched, did the boy himself 
feel, as he rode along ! His peace of mind was 
destroyed. A heavy weight of conscious guilt 
pressed upon his heart. He went home and re- 
peated the lie to his mother. It is always thus 
when we turn from the path of duty ; we know 
not how widely we shall wander. Having com- 
mitted one fault, he told a lie to conceal it, and 
then added sin to sin, by repeating and persisting 
in his falsehood. What a change had one short 
half-day produced in the character and the hap- 
piness of this child ! His parent had not yet 
detected him in his sin, but he was not, on that 
account, free from punishment. Conscience was 
at work, telling him that he was degraded and 
guilty. His look of innocence and his light- 
ness of heart had left him. He was ashamed 
to look his father or mother in the face. He 
tried to appear easy and happy, but he was un- 
easy and miserable. A heavy load of conscious 
guilt rested upon him, which destroyed all his 
peace. 



44 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

When he retired to bed that night, he feared 
the dark. It was long before he could quiet 
his troubled spirit with sleep. And when he 
awoke in the morning, the consciousness of his 
guilt had not forsaken him. There it remained 
fixed deep in his heart, and would allow him no 
peace. He was guilty, and of course wretched. 
The first thought which occurred to him, on 
waking, was the lie of the preceding day. He 
could not forget it. He was afraid to go into 
the room where his parents were, lest they 
should discover, by his appearance, that he had 
been doing something wrong. And though, as 
weeks passed away, the acuteness of his feel- 
ings in some degree abated, he was all the time 
disquieted and unhappy. He was continually 
fearing that something would occur which 
should lead to his detection. 

Thus things went on for several weeks, till, 
one day, the gentleman at whose house he 
stopped, called at his father's on business. So. 
soon as this boy saw him come into the house, 
his heart beat violently, and he turned pale with 
the fear that something would be said that 
would bring the whole truth to light. The gen- 
tleman, after conversing a few moments with* 
his father, turned to the boy, and said, 

" Well, how did you get home the other 



DECEPTION. 45 



day ? My boys had a very pleasant visit from 
you." 

Can you imagine how the boy felt ? You 
could almost have heard his heart beat. The 
blood rushed into his face, and he could not 
speak ; and he dared not raise his eyes from 
the floor. 

The gentleman then turned to his parents, 
and said, " You must let your son come up 
again and see my boys. They were quite dis- 
appointed when he was there a few weeks ago, 
for he only stayed about two hours, and they 
hoped he had come to spend the whole day 
with them." 

Thus the whole truth was brought out. And 
how do you suppose that boy felt? He had 
disobeyed his parents; told a lie to conceal it ; 
had for weeks suffered the pangs of a guilty 
conscience ; and now the whole truth was dis- 
covered. He stood before his parents over- 
whelmed with shame, convicted of disobe- 
dience, and mean, degrading falsehood. 

This boy was all the time suffering the con- 
sequences of his sin. For many days he was 
enduring the reproaches of conscience, while 
the knowledge of his crime was confined to his 
own bosom. How bitterly did he suffer for the 
short period of forbidden pleasure which he 



40 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

had enjoyed ! The way of the transgressor is 
always hard. Every child who does wrong 
must, to a greater or less degree, feel the same 
sorrows. This guilty child, overwhelmed with 
confusion and disgrace, burst into tears, and 
implored his parents' forgiveness. But he was 
told by his parents that he had sinned, not only 
against them, but against God. The humble 
child went to God in penitence and in prayer. 
He made a full confession of all to his parents, 
and obtained their forgiveness ; and it was not 
till then that peace of mind was restored. 

Will not the child who reads this account 
take warning from it ? Whenever you have 
done wrong, you had better confess it at once. 
Falsehood will but increase your sin, and ag- 
gravate your sorrow. Whenever you are 
tempted to say that which is untrue, look for- 
ward to the consequences. Think how much 
sorrow, and shame, and sin, you will bring 
upon yourself. Think of the reproaches of 
conscience ; for you may depend upon it, that 
those reproaches are not easily borne. 

And is it pleasant to have the reputation of 
a liar? When persons are detected in one 
falsehood, they can not be believed when they 
speak the truth. No person can place any 
more confidence in them till a long time of 



DECEPTION. 47 



penitence has elapsed in which they have had 
an opportunity to manifest their amendment. 
The little boy, whose case we have above 
alluded to, was sincerely penitent for his sin. 
He resolved that he never would tell another 
lie. But since he had deceived his parents 
once, their confidence in him was necessarily 
for a time destroyed. They could judge of the 
reality of his penitence only by his future con- 
duct. One day he was sent to a store to pur- 
chase some small articles for his mother. In 
his haste, he forgot to stop for the few cents of 
change which he ought to have received. Upon 
his return home, his mother inquired for the 
change. He had not thought about it before, 
and very frankly told her that he had forgotten 
it entirely. How did his mother know that he 
was telling the truth ? She had already de- 
tected him in one falsehood, and she feared that 
he was now telling her another. " I hope, my 
dear son," she said, " you are not again deceiv- 
ing me." The boy was perfectly honest this 
time, and his parents had never before dis- 
trusted his word. It almost broke his heart to 
be thus suspected, but he felt that it was just, 
and he went to his chamber and wept bitterly. 
These are the necessary consequences of 
falsehood. A liar can never be believed. It 



48 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

matters not whether he tells truth or falsehood, 
no one can trust his word. If you are ever 
tempted to tell a lie therefore, first ask yourself 
whether you are willing to have it said that 
nobody can trust your word. The liar is al- 
ways known to be such. A person may pos- 
sibly tell a lie which shall not be detected, but 
almost always something happens which brings 
it to light. The boy who stopped to play when 
on an errand two miles from his father's house, 
thought that his falsehood would never be dis- 
covered. But he was detected, and over- 
whelmed with shame. 

It is impossible for a person who is in the 
habit of uttering untruths to escape detection. 
Your character for truth or falsehood will be 
known. And what can be more humiliating 
and degrading than to have the name of a liar ? 
It is so considered in all nations and with all 
people. It is considered one of the meanest 
and most cowardly vices of which one can be 
guilty. The liar is always a coward. He tells 
lies, because he is afraid to tell the truth. 

And how do you suppose the liar must feel 
when he comes to die ? It is a solemn hour. 
Perhaps many of the children who read this 
book have never seen a person die? I have 
seen many. I have seen children of all ages 



DECEPTION. 49 



dressed in the shroud and placed in the coffin. 
I might write pages in describing to you such 
scenes. One day I went to see a girl about ten 
years of age, who was very sick. When I 
went into the room, she was lying upon a little 
cot-bed, her lips parched with fever, and her; 
face pale and emaciated with suffering. Her 
mother was standing by her bedside, weeping 
as though her heart would break. Other 
friends were standing around, looking in vain 
for something to do to relieve the little sufferer. 
I went and took her by the hand, and found 
that she was dying. She raised her languid 
eyes to me, but could not speak. Her breath- 
ing grew fainter and fainter. Her arms and 
limbs grew cold. We could only look mourn- 
fully on and see the advances of death, without 
being able to do any thing to stop its progress. 
At last she ceased to breathe. Her spirit as- 
cended to God to be judged, and her body re- 
mained upon the bed, a cold and lifeless corpse. 
All children are exposed to death ; and when 
you least expect it, you may be called to lie 
upon a bed of sickness, and go down to the 
grave. There is nothing to give one joy in 
such an hour, but a belief that our sins are for- 
given, and that we are going to the heavenly 
home. But how must a child feel in such an 
D 



50 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

hour, when reflecting upon falsehoods which 
are recorded in God's book of remembrance! 
Death is terrible to the impenitent sinner ; but 
it is a messenger of love and of mercy to those 
who are prepared to die. If you have been 
guilty of a falsehood, you can not die in peace 
till you have repented and obtained forgive- 
ness. 

There was once a little girl who died when 
she was eleven years of age. She loved the 
Savior ; and when she was told that she could 
not live, she was very happy. She said that she 
was happy to die, and go home and be with her 
Savior and the angels in heaven. But there 
was one thing, which, for a time, weighed 
heavily upon her mind. A year or two before 
she felt interested in religion she had told what 
she considered an untruth to her aunt; and 
she could not die in peace, till she had seen 
that aunt, confessed her sin, and asked forgive- 
ness. Her aunt was sent for, though she was 
many miles distant. When her aunt came, the 
sick little girl, with sorrow for her fault, made 
confession, and asked forgiveness. "Aunt," 
said she, " I have prayed to God, and hope that 
he has forgiven me ; and I can not die in peace 
till I have obtained your forgiveness." If any 
child who reads this book is tempted to deceive 



DECEPTION. 51 



his parents or his friends, I hope he will remem- 
ber that he must soon die, and think how he will 
feel in that solemn hour. 

But, perhaps, you think that the falsehood of 
which this girl was guilty was one of peculiar 
aggravation. It was simply this : she was one* 
day playing in the room with several little chil- 
dren, and was making them laugh very loud. 
Her aunt said, " My dear, you must not make 
them laugh so loud." 

And she replied, " It is not I, aunt, who makes 
them laugh." 

This was the falsehood she uttered. And 
though her aunt did not know that it was false, 
the little girl did, and God in heaven did. And 
when she came to die, though it was a year or 
two after, her soul was troubled, and the con- 
sciousness of her sin destroyed her peace. A 
lie is, in the sight of God, a dreadful sin, be it 
ever so trifling in our estimation. When we 
are just ready to leave the world, and to appear 
before God in judgment, the convictions of a 
guilty conscience will press upon the heart like 
a heavy burden. 

There are many ways of being guilty of 
falsehood without uttering the lie direct in 
words. Whenever you try to deceive your 
parents, in doing that which you know they 



52 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



disapprove, you do, in reality, tell a lie. Con- 
science reproves you for falsehood. Once, when 

I was in company, 
as the plate of cake 
was passed round, 
a little boy, who 
sat by the side of 
his mother, took a 
much larger piece 
than he knew she 
would allow him to 
have. She hap- 
pened, for the mo- 
ment, to be looking 
away, and he broke 
a small piece off, 
lap with his hand- 




•lHiS UAKE. 



and covered the rest in his 
kerchief. When his mother looked, she saw 
the small piece, and supposed that he had taken 
no more. He intended to deceive her. His 
mother has never found out what he did. But 
God saw him, and frowned upon him, as he 
committed this sin. And do you not think that 
the boy has already suffered for it ? Must he 
not feel mean and degraded whenever he thinks 
that, merely to get a piece of cake, he would 
deceive his kind mother ? If that boy had any 
honorable or generous feeling remaining in his 



DECEPTION. 53 



bosom, he would feel reproached and unhappy 
whenever he thought of his meanness. If he 
was already dead to shame, it would show that 
he had by previous deceit acquired this charac- 
ter. And can any one love or esteem a child 
who has become so degraded ? And can a 
child, who is neither beloved nor respected, be 
happy ? No ! You may depend upon it, that 
when you see a person guilty of such deceit, he 
does in some way or other, even in this world, 
suffer a severe penalty. A frank and open- 
hearted child is the only happy child. De- 
ception, however skillfully it may be prac- 
ticed, is disgraceful, and insures sorrow and 
contempt. If you would have the approbation 
of your own conscience, and the approval of 
friends, never do that which you shall desire to 
have concealed. Always be open as the day. 
Be above deceit, and then you will have nothing 
to fear. There is something delightful in the 
magnanimity of a perfectly sincere and honest 
child. No person can look upon such a one 
without affection. If you have such a charac- 
ter you are sure of friends, and your prospects 
of earthly usefulness and happiness are bright. 
But we must not forget that there is a day of 
most solemn judgment near at hand. When 
you die, your body will be wrapped in the 



54 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

shroud, and placed in the coffin, and buried in 
the grave ; and there it will remain and mold- 
er to the dust, while the snows of unnumbered 
winters, and the tempests of unnumbered sum- 
mers, shall rest upon the cold earth which cov- 
ers you. 

But your spirit will not be there. Far away, 
beyond the cloudless skies, and blazing suns, 
and twinkling stars, it will have gone to judg- 
ment. How awful must be the scene which 
will open before you, as you enter the eternal 
world ! You will see the throne of God : how 
bright, how glorious, will it burst upon your 
sight! You will see God the Savior seated 
upon that majestic throne. Angels, in numbers 
more than can be counted, will fill the universe 
with their glittering wings, and their rapturous 
songs. 

Oh, what a scene to behold ! And then you 
will stand in the presence of this countless 
throng to answer for every thing you have done 
while you lived. Every action and every 
thought of your life will then be fresh in your 
mind. You know it is written in the Bible, 
"God will bring every work into judgment, 
with every secret thing, whether it be good or 
whether it be evil." How must the child then 
feel who has been guilty of falsehood and de- 



DECEPTION. 55 



ception, and has it then all brought to light ! 
No liar can enter the kingdom of heaven. Oh, 
how dreadful must be the confusion and shame 
with which the deceitful child will then be over- 
whelmed ! The angels will all see your sin 
and your disgrace. And do you think they 
will wish to have a liar enter heaven, to be as- 
sociated with them ? No ! They must turn 
from you with great displeasure. The Savior 
will look upon you in displeasure too. Con- 
science will rend your soul. And you must 
hear the awful sentence, " Depart from me, into 
everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his 
angels." 

Oh, it is a dreadful thing to practice deceit. 
It will shut you from heaven. It will confine 
you in eternal woe. Though you should escape 
detection as long as you live; though you 
should die, and your falsehood not be discov- 
ered, the time will soon come when it will all 
be brought to light, and when the whole uni- 
verse of men and of angels will be witnesses 
of your shame. If any child who reads this 
feels condemned for past deceptions, oh, be- 
ware, and do not postpone repentance till the 
day of judgment shall arrive. Go at once to 
those whom you have deceived, and make con- 
fession, and implore forgiveness. Then go to 



56 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

your Savior, fall upon your knees before him; 
pray that he will pardon you, and promise to 
sin no more. If your prayer is offered in sin- 
cerity, and your resolution remains unbroken, 
the Savior will forgive you; and when the 
trump of the archangel shall summon you to 
judgment, he will give you a home in heaven. 
The tear of sincere penitence our kind Savior 
is ever ready to accept. 

If you are ever tempted to deceive, O, re- 
member, that your deception must soon be 
known. It is utterly impossible that it should 
long remain undetected. When the day of 
judgment arrives, your heart will be open to 
the view of the universe, and every thought 
will be publicly known. How much safer then 
is it to be sincere and honest ! Strive to pre- 
serve your heart free from guile. Then you 
will have peace of conscience. You will fear 
no detection. You can lie down at night in 
peace. You can awake in the morning with 
joy. Trusting in the Savior for acceptance, 
you can die happy. And when the morning 
of the resurrection dawns upon you, your heart 
will be filled with a joy which earth's sunniest 
mornings and brightest skies never could afford. 
The Savior will smile upon you. Angels will 
welcome you to heaven. You will rove, in in- 



DECEPTION. 57 



expressible delight, through the green pastures 
of that blissful abode. You will lie down by 
the still waters where there is sweet repose 
forever. Oh, what an hour of bliss must that 
be, when the child, saved from sin and sorrow, 

" Has reached the shore 
Where tempests- never beat nor billows roar !" 



CHAPTER III. 



OB EDIENCE 



In the chapters which you have now read, I 
have endeavored to show you how much your 
own happiness, and that of your parents, de- 
pend upon your conduct. And I trust that 
every child who has read what I have written 
thus far, has resolved to do all in his power to 
promote the happiness of those who have been 
so kind to him. But you will find that it is a 
very different thing to resolve to do your duty, 
from what it is to perform your resolutions 
when the hour of temptation comes. It re- 
quires courage and firmness to do right, when 
you are surrounded by those who urge you to 
do wrong. Temptations to do wrong will be 
continually arising ; and, unless you have the 
resolution to brave ridicule, and to refuse soli- 
citation, you will be continually led into trouble. 

I knew a young man who was ruined en- 
tirely, because he had not courage enough to 
say no. He was, when a boy, very amiable in 



OBEDIENCE. 59 



his disposition, and did not wish to make any 
person unhappy ; but he had no mind of his 
own, and could be led about by his associates 
into almost any difficulties, or any sins. If, in 
a clear moonlight winter evening, his father 
gave him leave to go out of doors, and slide 
down the hill for half an hour, he would resolve 
to be obedient and return home at the time ap- 
pointed. But if there were other boys there 
to try to persuade him to remain longer, he had 
not the courage to refuse them. And thus he 
would disobey his kind parents because he had 
not courage to do his duty, He began in this 
way, and so he continued. One day, a bad 
boy asked him to go into a store, and drink 
some brandy. He knew that it was wrong, 
and did not wish to go. But he feared that, if 
he did not consent, he would be laughed at ; 
and so he went. Having thus yielded to this 
temptation, he was less prepared for tempta- 
tion again. He went to the bottle with one 
and another, till at last he became intemperate, 
and would stagger through the streets. He fell 
into the company of gamblers, because he could 
not refuse their solicitations. He thus became 
a gambler himself, and went on from step to 
step, never having resolution to say no, till he 
ruined himself, and planted within him the seeds 



60 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

of disease, which hurried him to a premature 
grave. He died the miserable victim of his own 
irresolution. 

Thousands have been thus ruined. They 
are amiable in disposition, and in general mean 
well, but have not courage to do their duty. 
They fear that others will laugh at them. Now, 
unless you are sufficiently brave not to care if 
others do laugh at you ; unless you have suffi- 
cient courage to say no, when others tempt you 
to do wrong, you will be always in difficulty : 
such a person never can be happy or respected. 
You must not expect it will be always easy to 
do your duty. At times it will require a great 
mental struggle, and call into exercise all the 
resolution that you possess. It is best that it 
should be so, that you may acquire firmness of 
character and strength of integrity. 

Near a school-house in the country, there 
was an apple-tree. One summer it was covered 
with hard, sour, and green apples, and the little 
girls who went to that school could hardly re- 
sist the temptation of eating those apples, 
though they knew that there was danger of its 
making them sick. One girl, who went to that 
school, was expressly forbidden by her mother 
from eating them. But when all her playmates 
were around her, with the apples in their hands, 



OBEDIENCE. Gl 



urging her to eat them, and telling her that her 
mother never would know it, she wickedly 
yielded to their solicitation. She felt guilty, as, 
in disobedience to her mother's commands, she 
ate the forbidden fruit. But she tried to ap- 
pease her conscience by thinking that it could 
do no harm. 

Having thus commenced disobedience, she 
could every day eat more freely, and with less 
reluctance. At last she was taken sick. Her 
mother asked her if she had been eating any 
of the green apples at school. Here came an- 
other temptation to sin. When we once com- 
mence doing wrong, it is impossible to tell where 
we shall stop. She was afraid to acknowledge 
to her mother her disobedience ; and to hide 
the fault she told a lie. She declared that she 
had not eaten any of the apples. Unhappy 
girl ! she had first disobeyed her mother, and 
then told a lie to conceal her sin. 

Temptations will be continually coming upon 
you, which you will find it hard to resist. But 
if you once yield, you have entered that down- 
ward path which leads continually to greater 
and greater sins, and finally to sorrow and 
shame. How much wiser would it have been 
in the little girl, whose story we have just re- 
lated, if she had in the first instance resolutely 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



refused to disobey her mother's command! 
How much happier would she have been, when 
retiring to sleep at night, if she had the joy of 
an approving conscience, and could with a 
grateful heart, ask the blessing of God ! The 
only path of safety and happiness is implicit 
obedience. If in the slightest particular, you 
yield to temptation, and do that which you know 
to be wrong, you will not know when or where 
to stop. To hide one crime, you will be guilty 
of another ; and thus you will draw down upon 
yourself the frown of your Maker, and expose 
yourself to sorrow for time and eternity. 

And think not that these temptations to do 
wrong will be few or feeble. Hardly a day will 
pass in which you will not be tempted, either 
through indolence to neglect your duty, or to 
do that which you know your parents will dis- 
approve. A few years ago, two little boys went 
to pass the afternoon and evening at the house 
of one of their playmates, who had a party, to 
celebrate his birth-day. Their parents told 
them to come home at eight o'clock in the eve- 
ning. It was a beautiful afternoon, late in the 
autumn, as the large party of boys assembled at 
the house of their friend. Numerous barns and 
sheds were attached to the house, and a beauti- 
ful grove of beech and of oak surrounded it, 



OBEDIENCE. 



affording a most delightful place for all kinds of 
sport. Never did boys have a more happy 




THE TARTY. 



time. They climbed the trees, and swung upon 
the limbs. And as they jumped upon the new- 
made hay in the barns, they made the walls 
ring with their joyous shouts. Happiness 
seemed, for the time, to fill every heart. They 
continued their sports till the sun had gone down 
behind the hills, and the last ray of twilight had 
disappeared. When it became too dark for 



G4 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

out-door play, they went into the house, and 
commenced new plays in the brightly-lighted 
parlor. As they were in the midst of the ex- 
citing game of " blind man's buff," some one 
entered the room, and requested them all to 
take their seats, for apples and nuts were to be 
brought in. Just as the door was opened by 
the servant bringing in the waiter loaded with 
apples and nuts, the clock struck eight. The 
boys, who had been directed to leave at that 
hour, felt very much troubled. They knew not 
what to do. The temptation to stay was al- 
most too strong to be resisted. The older 
brother of the two whispered to one of the boys 
at his side, that he must go. Immediately there 
was an uproar all over the room, each one ex- 
claiming against it. 

" Why," said one, " my mother told me that 
I might stay till nine." 

" My mother," said another, " did not say any 
thing about my coming home ; she will let me 
stay as long as I please." I 

" / would not be tied to my mother's apron 
string," said a rude boy, in a distant part of the 
room. 

A timid boy, who lived in the next house to 
the one in which these two boys lived, came up, 
and said, with a very imploring countenance 



OBEDIENCE. 65 



and voice, " I am going home at half-past eight. 
Now do stay a little while longer, and then we 
will go home together. I don't dare to go alone, 
it is so dark." 

And even the lady of the house where they 
were visiting, came to them and said, " I do not j 
think that your mother will have any objection 
to your staying a few minutes longer, to eat an 
apple and a few nuts. I would have sent them 
in earlier, if I had known that you wished to 

g°-" 

Now, what could these poor boys do ? How 

could they summon resolution to resist so much 
entreaty ? For a moment they hesitated, and 
almost yielded to the temptation. But virtue 
wavered only for a moment. They immedi- 
ately mustered all their courage, and said, " We 
must go." Hastily bidding their playmates all 
good night, they got their hats as quick as they 
could, for fear, if they delayed, they should yield 
to the temptation, — and left the house. They 
stopped not a moment to look back upon the 
brightly-shining windows, and happy group of i 
boys within, but, taking hold of each other's 
hands, ran as fast as they could on their way 
home. When they arrived at home, their father 
and mother met them with a smile. And when 
their parents learned under what strong temp- 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



tations they had been to disobey, and that they 
had triumphed over these temptations, they 
looked upon their children with feelings of grati- 
fication, which amply repaid them for all their 
trial. And when these boys went to bed that 
night, they felt that they had done their duty, 
and that they had given their parents pleasure ; 
and these thoughts gave them vastly more 
happiness than they could have enjoyed if they 
had remained with their playmates beyond the 
hour which their parents had permitted. This 
was a noble proof of their determination to do 
their duty. 

And, considering their youth and inexpe- 
rience, and the circumstances of the temptation, 
it was one of the severest trials to which such 
boys could be exposed. Probably, in all their 
after-life, they would not be under stronger 
temptations to swerve from duty. Now, every 
child will often be exposed to similar tempta- 
tions. And if your resolution be not strong, you 
will yield. And if you once begin to yield, you 
will never know where to stop ; but, in all 
probability, will go on from step to step till you 
are forever lost to virtue and to happiness. 

But perhaps some child, who reads this, 
thinks I make too serious a matter of so slight 
a thing. You say, It oan not make much dif r 



OBEDIENCE. 67 



ference whether I come home half an hour ear- 
lier or later. But you are mistaken here. It 
does make a great difference. For if your pa- 
rents in such a case had directed you to come 
home at eight, remaining longer would have 
been disobeying them ; and do you think thati 
God can look upon the disobedience of a child 
as a trifling sin ? Is it a trifle to refuse to obey 
parents who have loved you, and watched over 
you for months and for years ; who have taken 
care of you in sickness, and endeavored to re- 
lieve you when in pain ; who have given you 
clothes to wear, and food to eat, and have done 
all in their power to make you happy ? It is 
inexcusable ingratitude. It is a great sin. 

But perhaps you ask, What positive harm 
does it do ? It shows your parents that their 
child is unwilling to obey them ; and is there 
no harm in that ? It makes your parents un- 
happy ; and is there no harm in that ? It 
tempts you to disobey in other things ; and is 
there no harm in that ? It is entering upon 
that career of sin which led the girl, whom we 
have, in the first chapter, described to you, to 
the house of correction, and the wretched boy 
to the gallows. Oh, beware how you think it 
is a little thing to disobey j^our parents ! Their 
happiness is in a great degree in your hands ; 



68 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



and every thing which you knowingly do that 
disturbs their happiness in the least degree, is 
sin in the sight of God ; and you must answer 
for it at his bar. 

If you go into any state prison, you will see 
a large number of men working in silence and 
in gloom. They are dressed in clothes of con- 
trasted colors, that, in case of escape, they may 
be easily detected. But the constant presence 
of vigilant keepers, and the high walls of stone, 
guarded by an armed sentry, render escape al- 
most impossible. There many of these guilty 

men remain, month 
after month, and 
year after year, in 
friendlessness, and 
in silence, and in 
sorrow. They are 
in confinement and 
disgrace. At night, 
they are marched 
to their solitary 
cells, there to pass 
the weary hours, 
with no friend to 
converse with, and 
no joy to cheer them. They are left, in dark- 
less and in solitude, to their own gloomy re- 




THE PRISON. 



OBEDIENCE. 69 



flections. And, oh! how many bitter tears 
must be shed in the midnight darkness of those 
cells ! How many an unhappy criminal would 
give worlds, if he had them to give, that he 
might again be innocent and free ! 

You will see sometimes in prisons many who 
are young — almost children. If you go around 
from cell to cell, and inquire how these wretched 
persons commenced their course of sin, very 
many will tell you that it was with disobedience 
to parents. You will find prisoners there, 
whose parents are most affectionate and kind. 
They have endeavored to make their children 
virtuous and happy. But, oh ! how cruelly 
have their hopes been blasted ! A disobedient 
son has gone from step to step in crime, till he 
has brought himself to the gloomy cell of the 
prison, and has broken his parents' hearts by 
his disobedience. 

The chaplain of a state prison once made 
the following interesting statement. It shows 
the nature of progress in crime. 

" A few weeks since, I addressed the congre- 
gation to which I minister, on the importance 
of a strict attention to what are usually denom- 
inated little things; and remarked, that it is 
the want of attention to these little things, 



70 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

which not unfrequently throws a disastrous in- 
fluence over the whole course of subsequent 
life. I also remarked, that a large proportion 
of the events and transactions, which go to 
make up the lives of most men, are, as they are 
usually estimated, comparatively unimportant 
and trivial ; and yet, that all these events and 
transactions contribute, in a greater or less de- 
gree, to the formation of character ; and that 
on moral character are suspended, essentially, 
our usefulness and happiness in time, and our 
well-being in eternity. 

" I then remarked, that I could not doubt, 
but, on sober reflection, many of that assembly 
would find that they owed the complexion of a 
great portion of their lives, and their unhappy 
situation as tenants of the state prison, to some 
event or transaction comparatively trivial, and 
of which, at the time, they thought very little. 
I requested them to make the examination, and 
see whether the remark I had made was not 
correct. 

" This was on the Sabbath. The next morn- 
ing, one of the prisoners, an interesting young 
man, came to me, and observed, that he should 
be glad to have some conversation with me, 
whenever I should find it convenient. Accord- 
ingly, in the afternoon of the same day, I sent 



OBEDIENCE. 71 



for him. On his being seated, and my request- 
ing him to state freely what he wished to say, 
he said that he wished to let me know how pe- 
culiarly appropriate to his case were the obser- 
vations I had made the previous day, on the 
influence of little things ; and if I would permit' 
him, he would give me a brief sketch of his his- 
tory ; and, particularly, of the transaction which 
almost in childhood had given a disastrous color- 
ing to the whole period of his youth, and, in the 
result, had brought him to be an occupant of 
his present dreadful abode. 

" It appears, from the sketch which he gave, 
that he was about ten years of age when his 
father moved from a distant part of the state to 
a town in the vicinity of Boston. In this town 
was a respectable boarding-school, not a great 
distance from the residence of his father ; and 
to this school he was sent. Having always 
lived in the country, he had seen very few of 
those novelties, and parades, and shows, which 
are so common in and near the city ; and it is 
not wonderful that when they occurred, he 
should, like most children, feel a strong desire 
to witness them. 

" Before he had been long at school, he heard 
that there was to be a ' Cattle Show' at 
Brighton. He had never seen a Cattle Show. 



72 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

He presumed it must be a very- 
spectacle, and felt a very strong desire to attend 
it. This desire, on the morning of the first day 
of the show, he expressed to his father, and was 
told that it would be a very improper place for 
him to go to, unless attended by some suitable 
person to watch over and take care of him ; and 
that such was the business of the father, that he 
could not accompany him, and, of course, his 
desire could not be gratified. He was sorely 
disappointed, but resolved not to give up, with- 
out further effort, an object on which his heart 
was so much set. 

" The next morning he beset his father again 
on the subject. His father seemed anxious to 
have his son gratified, but told him that he could 
by no means consent to have him go to such a 
place without suitable company ; and, though 
his business was urgent, he would try to go in 
the afternoon ; and, if he did, he would call at 
the school-house, and take him with him. This 
was all that he could promise. 

" But here was an uncertainty, an if which 
very illy accorded with the eager curiosity of 
the son. Accordingly, he resolved that he 
would go at all hazards. He doubted much 
whether his father would go, and if he did not, 
he concluded he might, without much difficulty, 



OBEDIENCE. 73 



go himself, and conceal it from his father. 
Having formed his determination and laid his 
plan, he went, before leaving home in the morn- 
ing, to his father's desk, and took a little money 
to spend on the occasion ; and, instead of going 
to school, went to Brighton. Contrary, how- * 
ever, to his expectations and hopes, his father, 
for the sake of gratifying him, concluded to go 
to the show, and, on his way, called for his son. 
But no son was to be found. The teacher said 
that the boy had not been at school that day. 

11 The father went to the Cattle Show, and 
during the afternoon saw the son there, but 
took care that the son should not discover him. 
After the return of both at evening, the father 
inquired of the son whether he had attended 
school that day. His reply was that he had. 
My youthful readers will perceive how readily 
and naturally one fault leads to another. But 
the son was soon satisfied from further ques- 
tions, and from the manner of his father, that 
he knew where he had been ; and he confessed 
the whole. 

" The father told him that he should feel him- 
self bound in duty to acquaint his teacher with 
the affair, and to request him to call him to ac- 
count for absenting himself thus from the school 



74 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

without permission, and to inflict such punish- 
ment on him as might be thought proper. 

" He was accordingly sent to school, and, in 
his view, disgraced in the estimation of his 
teacher and of his school-fellows ; and he re- 
solved not to submit to it for any great length 
of time. A few days after this, he left home, 
under pretense of going to school, and ran 
away. He traveled on, until he reached the 
town from which his father had removed, and 
had been absent for several weeks before his pa- 
rents ascertained what had become of him. 
He was, however, discovered, and brought back 
to his home. 

" Some time after this, he was sent to an- 
other school in a neighboring town ; but not 
being altogether pleased, he resolved, as he had 
run away once, that he would try the experiment 
again ; and this he did. He had been absent 
six months before his parents ascertained what 
had become of him. He had changed his 
name ; but getting into some difficulty, in con- 
sequence of which he must go to jail, unless he 
could find friends, he was constrained to tell his 
name, and who were his parents ; and in this 
way his good father, whom he had so much 
abused, learning his son's condition, came for- 






OBEDIENCE. 75 



ward to his aid, and saved him from confine- 
ment in a prison. 

" But I should make this story much too long, 
were I to detail all the particulars of his subse- 
quent life until he became a tenant of the state 
prison. Suffice it to say, that he went on 
from one mis-step to another, until he entered 
upon that career of crime which terminated as 
before stated. 

" And now, to what do you think this unhappy 
young man ascribes his wanderings from home, 
and virtue, and happiness, and the forlorn con- 
dition in which he now finds himself? Why, 
simply, to the trivial circumstance of his leaving 
school one day, without his father's consent, for 
the purpose of going to a cattle show ! And what 
do you think he says of it now ? 'I feel/ said 
he, ' that all I have suffered, and still suffer, is 
the righteous chastisement of heaven. I de- 
serve it all, for my wicked disobedience both to 
my earthly and my heavenly Father; and I 
wish,' said he, further, i that you would make 
such use of my case as you shall think best cal- 
culated to instruct and benefit the young/ 

" And now," continues the chaplain, " I have 
drawn up this sketch — and I can assure you it 
is no fictitious one — for your perusal. You 
here see what has been the result of a single act 



76 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

of disobedience to a parent ; what it has already 
cost this unhappy man to gratify, in an unlawful 
way, his youthful curiosity even in a single in- 
stance. 

" May He, who giveth wisdom to all who ask 
it, lead and guide you safely through the jour- 
ney of life, and cause that even this humble 
sketch shall serve to strengthen you in virtue, 
and to deter you from the paths of the De- 
stroyer." 

Can any child read this narrative without 
trembling at the thought of disobedience, even 
in the most trifling affair ? If you once diso- 
bey your parents, it is impossible to tell to what 
it will lead. Crime follows in the steps of 
crime, till the career is closed by irretriev- 
able disgrace and eternal ruin. The conse- 
quences reach far, far beyond the grave. They 
affect our interests and our happiness in that 
eternal world to which we are all rapidly going. 
Yes ; the child who utters one falsehood, or is 
guilty of one act of disobedience, may, in con- 
sequence of that one yielding to temptation, be 
hurried on from crime to crime, till his soul is 
ruined, and he is shut up, by the command of 
God, in those awful dungeons of endless despair 
prepared for the devil and his angels. 






OBEDIENCE. 77 



And how ungrateful is disobedience ! A no- 
ble-hearted boy would deny himself almost any 
pleasure ; he would meet almost any danger ; 
he would endure almost any suffering, before 
he would, in the most trifling particular, diso- 
bey parents who had been so kind, and had en- 
dured so much to make him happy. How dif- 
ferent is such a child from one who is so ungrate- 
ful that he will disobey his parents merely that 
he may play a few moments longer, or that he 
may avoid some trifling work that he does not 
wish to perform ! There is a magnanimity in 
a child who feels so grateful for his parents' 
love that he will repay them by all the affection 
and obedience in his power, which attracts the 
respect and affection of all who know him. 

Suppose you see a boy walking before his 
mother. The boy's father is dead ; he has 
been killed in battle. You see the orphan 
boy carrying upon his shoulder his father's 
sword and cap. You look at his poor mother. 
She is Weeping, for her husband is dead. She 
is returning in sorrow to her lonely house. She 
has no friend but her dear boy. How ardently 
does she love him ! All her hopes of earthly 
happiness are depending upon his obedience 
and affection. She loves her boy so well, that 
she would be willing to die, to make him happy. 



78 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

She will work night and day, while he is young, 
to supply him with clothes and with food. And 
all she asks and hopes is, that her boy will be 
affectionate, and obedient, and good. 

And, oh ! how ungrateful and cruel will he 
be, if he neglect that mother, and by his unkind- 
ness cause her to weep ! But you see that he 
looks like a noble-hearted boy. His counte- 
nance seems to say, " Dear mother ; if ever I 
grow up to be a man, you shall never want, if 
I can help it." Oh, who can help loving the 
boy who loves his mother ! 

There was a boy about* thirteen years old, 
whose name was Casabianca. His father was 
the commander of a ship of war called the Ori- 
ent. This boy accompanied his father to the 
seas. His ship was once engaged in a terrible 
battle near the river Nile. In the midst of the 
thunders of the battle, while the shot were fly- 
ing thickly around, and strewing the decks with 
blood, this brave boy stood by the side of his 
father, faithfully discharging the duties which 
were assigned to him. At last his father placed 
him in a particular part of the ship, to perform 
some service there, and told him to remain at 
his post till he should call him away. As the 
father went to some distant part of the ship to 
notice the progress of the battle, a ball from the 



OBEDIENCE. 



79 



enemy's vessel laid him dead upon the deck. 
But the son, unconscious of his father's death, 
and faithful to the trust reposed in him, re- 
mained in his post, waiting for his father's or- 
ders. The battle raged dreadfully around him. 




CA8ABIANCA. 



The blood of the slain flowed at his feet. The 
ship took fire, and the threatening flames drew 
nearer and nearer. Still this noble-hearted 
boy would not disobey his father. In the face 
of blood, and balls, and fire, he stood firm and 



80 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

obedient. The sailors began to desert the burn- 
ing and sinking ship, and the boy cried out, 
" Father, may I go ?" But no voice of permis- 
sion could come from the mangled body of his 
lifeless father. And the boy, not knowing that 
he was dead, would rather die than disobey. 
And there that boy stood, at his post, till every 
man had deserted the ship ; and he stood and 
perished in the flames. O, what a boy was 
that! Every body who ever heard of him 
thinks that he was one of the noblest boys that 
ever was born. Rather than disobey his father, 
he would die in the flames. This account has 
been written in poetry; and, as the children 
who read this book, may like to see it, I will 
present it to them here : — 

CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on ; he would not go, 
Without his father's word ; 



OBEDIENCE. 81 



That father, faint in death below, 
His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — " Say, father, say. 

" If yet my task is done." 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father," once again he cried, 

If I may yet be gone." 
And — but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair ; 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair ; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father, must I stay ?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

Then came a burst of thunder sound — 

The boy — oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea. 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part, 

F 



82 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

But the noblest thing that perished there, 
Was that young, faithful heart. 

O, who would not love to have such a child 
as that ! Is not such a boy more noble than 
one who will disobey his parents merely that 
he may have a little play, or that he may avoid 
some unpleasant duty ? The brave little Casa- 
bianca would rather die than disobey. He 
loved his father. He had confidence in him. 
And even when death was staring him in the 
face, when 

" The flames rolled on, he would not go, 
Without his father's word." 

I have known some bad boys who thought it 
looked brave to care nothing for the wishes of 
their parents. But do you think that Casabianca 
was a coward ? No ; the boy who is truly 
brave, and has a noble spirit, will obey his pa- 
rents. If others urge him to act differently, he 
will dare to tell them that he means to do his 
duty ; and if they laugh at him, he will let them 
laugh, and show them, by his conduct, that he 
does not care for the sneers of bad boys. The 
fact is, that, in almost all cases, disobedient 
boys are mean, and cowardly, and contemptible. 
They have not one particle of the spirit of the 



OBEDIENCE. 83 



noble Casabianca. And when these disobedient 
boys grow up to be men, they do not command 
influence or respect. 

If you would be useful and happy when you 
arrive at mature years, you must be affectionate 
and obedient as a child. It is invariably true 
that the path of duty is the path of peace. The 
child who has established principles of firm in- 
tegrity — who has that undaunted resolution 
which can face opposition and brave ridicule — 
bids fair to rise to eminence in usefulness and 
respect. These qualities, which shed so lovely 
a charm over childhood, will go with you into 
maturer life ; they will give stability to your 
character, and command respect. And those 
faults of childhood which render one hesitating, 
and weak, and cowardly, will, in all probability, 
continue through your whole earthly existence. 
The man is but the grown-up child, possessing 
generally the same traits of character in every 
period of life. How important it is then that, 
in early youth, you should acquire the habit of 
triumphing over temptation, and of resolutely 
discharging all your duties ! 

It is important for you to remember that 
obedience requires of you, not only to do as you 
are bidden, but to do it with cheerfulness and 
alacrity. Suppose, as you are sitting at the 



84 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

table in a pleasant evening, the customary hour 
for you to retire to rest arrives. You are, per- 
haps, engaged in reading some very interesting 
book, and do not feel at all sleepy. You ask 
permission to sit up a little longer. But your 
mother tells you that the time for you to go to 
bed has come, and she prefers that you should 
be regular in your habits. You think it is hard 
that you can not be indulged in your wishes, 
and, with sullen looks, shut your book, and, 
taking a light, in ill-humor go to your chamber. 

Now, this is not obedience. As you retire 
to your chamber, the displeasure of God follows 
you. Your sin of disobedience is so great that 
you can not even pray before you fall asleep. 
It is impossible for a person to pray when out 
of humor. You may repeat the words of 
prayer, but you can not offer acceptable prayer 
to the Lord. And as you lie down upon your 
bed, and the darkness of night is around you, 
your offended Maker regards you as an un- 
grateful and disobedient child. And all the 
night long his eye is upon your heart, and the 
knowledge of your sin is in his mind. 

Obedience belongs to the heart, as well as to 
the outward conduct. It is necessary that you 
should fulfill the wishes of your parents with a 
spirit of affection and cheerfulness. You should 



OBEDIENCE. 85 



feel that they know what is best, and, instead 
of being sullen and displeased because they do 
not think fit to indulge you in all your wishes, 
you should, with a pleasant countenance and a 
willing heart yield to their requirements. 

You do not know how much pleasure it af- 
fords your parents to see you happy. They 
are willing to make almost any sacrifice for 
your good. And they never have more heart- 
felt enjoyment themselves than when they see 
their children virtuous, contented, and happy. 
When they refuse to gratify any of your de- 
sires, it is not because they do not wish to see 
you happy, but because they see that your hap- 
piness will be best promoted by refusing your 
request. They have lived longer in the world 
than you, and know better than you the dan- 
gers by which you are surrounded. Deeply in- 
terested in your book, you desire to sit up later 
than usual, and think it would make you happy. 
But your mother, who is older and wiser, knows 
that the way to make children healthy and hap- 
py, is to have them in the regular habit of re- 
tiring early at night. And when you ask to sit 
up later than usual, she loves you too well to 
permit it. You think she is cruel, when, in 
fact, she is kind. If she were an unkind mother, 
and cared nothing about your happiness, she 



86 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

would say, " O yes ; you may sit up as long 
as you please. I do not care any thing about 
it." 

Now, is it obedience, when your kind mother 
is doing all in her power to make you happy, 
for you to look sullen and morose ? Is it hon- 
oring your father and your mother, for you to 
look offended and speak unkindly, because they 
wish you to do that which they know to be for 
your welfare? The truly grateful child will 
endeavor, always, with a pleasant countenance, 
and a peaceful heart, to yi ild ready obedience 
to his parents' wishes. He will never murmur 
or complain. Such a child can retire to bed at 
night contented and happy. He can sincerely 
thank God for all his goodness, and pray for 
that protection which God is ever ready to 
grant to those who love him. 

There is hardly any subject in regard to 
which children more frequently complain, than 
of the unwillingness of their parents to indulge 
them in evening plays out of doors, and evening 
visits. An active boy, whose heart is full of 
fun and frolic, is sitting quietly by the fireside, 
in a pleasant winter evening. Every now and 
then he hears the loud shouts and joyful laugh 
of some twenty of his companions, who are 
making the moonlight air ring with their merri- 



OBEDIENCE. 87 



ment. Occasionally, a troop of them go rushing 
by the windows, in the impetuosity of their 
sports. The ardent little fellow by the fireside 
can hardly contain himself. He longs to unite 
his voice in the shout, and try his strength in 
the chase. He nestles restlessly in his chair ; 
he walks across the room, and peeps through 
the curtains. As he sees the dark forms of the 
boys clustered together in merry groups, or 
scattered in their plays, he feels as though he 
were a prisoner. And even though he be a 
good boy, and obedient to his parents, he can 
hardly understand why it is that they deprive 
him of this pleasure. 

I recollect well that I used to feel thus when 
I was a boy, and I suppose other boys feel so. 
But now I see the reason for these prohibitions. 
Those night plays led the boys into bad habits. 
All kinds of boys met together, and some would 
use indecent and profane language, which de- 
praved the hearts and corrupted the morals of 
the rest. The boys who were thus spending 
their evenings, were misimproving their time, 
and acquiring a disrelish for the purifying and 
peaceful enjoyments of home. 

You sometimes see men who appear to care 
nothing about their families. They spend their 
evenings away from home with the idle and the 



88 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

dissolute. Such men are miserable and de- 
spised. Their families are forsaken and unhap- 
py. Why do these men do so? Because, 
when they were boys, they spent their evenings 
aw r ay from home, playing in the streets. Thus 
home lost all its charms, virtue was banished 
from their bosoms, and life was robbed of its 
joy. I wish every boy who reads this would 
think of these reasons, and see if they are not 
sufficient. Your kind parents do not allow you 
to go out in the evenings and play in the 
streets. 

1. Because you will acquire bad habits. You 
will grow rude and vulgar in manners, and ac- 
quire a relish for pleasures which w T ill destroy 
your usefulness and your happiness. 

2. You will always find in such scenes bad 
boys, and must hear much indecent and profane 
language, which will corrupt your heart. 

3. You will lose all fondness for the enjoy- 
ment of home, and will be in great danger of 
growing up a dissipated and a worthless man. 

Now, are not these reasons sufficient to in- 
duce your parents to guard you against such 
temptations ? But perhaps you say, Other pa- 
rents let their children go out and play as much 
as they please every evening. How grateful, 
then, ought you to be, that you have parents 



OBEDIENCE. 89 



who are so kind and faithful that they will pre- 
serve you from these occasions of sin and sor- 
row ! They love you too well to be willing to 
see you preparing for an unhappy and profitless 
life. 

It not unfrequently is the case that a girl has 
young associates, who are in the habit of walk- 
ing without protectors in the evening twilight. 
On the evening of some lovely summer's day, 
as the whole western sky is blazing with the 
golden hue of sunset, her companions call at 
her door, to invite her to accompany them upon 
an excursion of pleasure. She runs to her pa- 
rents with her heart bounding with joy, in an- 
ticipation of the walk. They inquire into the 
plans of the party, and find that it will be im- 
possible for them to return from their contem- 
plated expedition before the darkness of the 
evening shall come. As affectionate and faith- 
ful parents, they feel that it is not proper or 
safe for them to trust their little daughter in 
such a situation. They, consequently, can not 
consent that she should go. She is disappointed 
in the extreme, and as she sees her friends de- 
parting, social and happy, she retires to her 
chamber and weeps. 

The disappointment to her is in fact a very 
severe one, and she can hardly help feeling that 



90 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

her parents are cruel, to deprive her of so much 
anticipated pleasure. Her companions go away 
with the same feelings. They make many se- 
vere remarks, and really think that this little 
girl's parents are unkind. Perhaps they have 
a pleasant walk, and all return home in safety ; 
and for many days they talk together at school 
of the delightful enjoyments of that evening. 
And this increases the impression on the mind 
of the girl who was not allowed to join them, 
that it was unkind in her parents not to let her 

go- 
But, perhaps, on the other hand, as they are 

returning, the party meet a drunken man, who 
staggers in among them. Terrified, they scat- 
ter and run. One, in endeavoring to climb 
over a fence, spoils her gown. Another, flee- 
ing in the dark, falls, and sadly bruises her face. 
Another, with loss of bonnet, and with dis- 
heveled hair, gains the door of her home. And 
thus is this party, commenced with high ex- 
pectations of joy, terminated with fright and 
tears. The parents of the little girl who re- 
mained at home, knew that they were exposed 
to all this ; and they loved their daughter too 
well to allow her to be placed in such a situa- 
tion. Was it not kind in them ? 

Perhaps, as they were returning, the party 



OBEDIENCE. 91 



met some twenty or more of the rudest boys 
of the village, in the midst of their most excit- 
ing sports. Here are Emma, Maria, and Su- 
san, with their party of timid girls, who must 
force their way through this crowd of turbulent 
and noisy boys. It is already dark. Some of 
the most unmannerly and wicked boys of the 
village are there assembled. They are highly 
excited with their sports. And the moment 
they catch a view of the party of girls, they 
raise a shout, and rush in among them reckless 
and thoughtless. The parents of the little girl 
who stayed at home, knew that she would be 
exposed to such scenes; and as they loved 
their daughter, they could not consent that she 
should go. Was it not kind ? 

A few young girls once went on such an 
evening walk, intending to return before it was 
dark. But in the height of their enjoyment 
they forgot how rapidly time was passing, and 
twilight was leaving them. But, at last, when 
they found how far they were from home, and 
how dark it was growing, they became quite 
alarmed, and hastened homeward. They, how- 
ever, got along very well while they were all 
together. But when it became necessary for 
them to separate, to go to their respective 



92 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

homes, and several of them had to go alone in 
the darkness, they felt quite terrified. 

It was necessary for one of the party after 
she had left all her companions, to go nearly a 
quarter of a mile. She set out upon the run, 
her heart beating with fear. She had not pro- 
ceeded far, however, before she heard the loud 
shouts of a mob of young men and boys, 
directly in the street through which she must 
pass. As she drew nearer, the shouts and 
laughter grew louder and more appalling. She 
hesitated. But what could she do ? She must 
go on. Trembling, she endeavored to glide 
through the crowd, when a great brutal boy, 
with a horrid mask on his face and a " jack- 
o'-lantern" in his hand, came up before her. He 
threw the glare of the light upon her counte- 
nance, and stared her full in the face. " Here 
is my wife," said he, and tried to draw her arm 
into his. A loud shout from the multitude of 
boys echoed through the darkened air. Hardly 
knowing what she did, she pressed through the 
crowd, and, breathless with fright, arrived at 
her home. And I will assure you she did not 
wish to take any more evening walks without a 
protector. From that time afterward she was 
careful to be under her father's roof before it 
was dark. 



OBEDIENCE. 93 



Now can you think that your father or 
mother are unkind, because they are unwilling 
to have you placed in such a situation ? And 
when they are doing all that they can to make 
you happy, ought you not to be grateful, and 
by a cheerful countenance, and ready obedience, 
to try to reward them for their love ? 

It is the duty of all children to keep in mind 
that their parents know what is best. And 
when they refuse to gratify your wishes, you 
should remember that their object is to do you 
good. That obedience which is prompt and 
cheerful, is the only obedience which is ac- 
ceptable to them, or well-pleasing to God. A 
great many cases will occur in which you will 
wish to do that which your parents will not ap- 
prove. If you do not, in such cases, pleasantly 
and readily yield to their wishes, you are un- 
grateful and disobedient. 



CHAPTER IV. 



GRATITUDE. 



It is the duty of children to be grateful to 
their parents, for the long-continued kindness 
which their parents have shown them. 

It is especially the duty of a child to be 
grateful to his mother. Your mother has done 
a great deal, and suffered a great deal for you. 
She has watched over you and taken care of 
you a great many years. You ought to repay 
her for this with gratitude. 

It is not enough, therefore, that children 
should obey their parents' expressed commands. 
You ought to try to do every thing which you 
think will give them pleasure, whether they tell 
you to do it or not. Good children will seek 
for opportunities to make their parents happy. 
A little girl, for instance, has some work to do. 
She knows that if she does it well and quick, 
it will gratify her mother. Now, if she be a 
good girl, she will not wait for her mother's or- 
ders, but will, of her own accord, improve her 



GRATITUDE. 95 



time, that she may exhibit the work to her 
mother sooner and more nicely done than she 
expected. 

Perhaps her mother is sick. Her affectionate 
daughter will not wait for her mother to ex- 
press her wishes. She will try to anticipate 
them. She will walk softly around the cham- 
ber, arranging every thing in cheerful order. 
She will adjust the clothes of the bed, that her 
mother may lie as comfortably as possible. And 
she will watch all her mother's movements, that 
she may learn what things she needs before she 
asks for them. Such will be the conduct of an 
affectionate and obedient child. 

I was once called to see a poor woman who 
was very sick. She was a widow, and in 
poverty. Her only companion and only earthly 
reliance was her daughter. As I entered the 
humble dwelling of this poor woman, I saw her 
bolstered up in the bed, with her pale counte- 
nance emaciated with pain, and every thing 
about the room proclaiming the most abject 
poverty. Her daughter sat sewing at the head 
of the bed, watching every want of her mother, 
and active with her needle. The perfect neat- 
ness of the room told how faithful was the 
daughter in the discharge of her painful and 
arduous duties. But her own slender form and 



96 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

consumptive countenance showed that by toil 
and watching she was almost worn out herself. 
This noble girl, by night and by day, with un- 
wearied attention, endeavored to alleviate the 
pains of her afflicted parent. I could not look 
upon her but with admiration, in seeing the de- 
votedness with which she watched every move- 
ment of her mother. 

How many wealthy parents would give all 
they possess, to be blessed with such a child ! 
For months this devoted girl had watched 
around her mother by night and by day, with a 
care which seemed never to be weary. You 
could see by the movement of her eye, and by 
the expression of her countenance, how full her 
heart was of sympathy. She did not wait for 
her mother to tell her what to do, but was upon 
the watch all the time to find out what would 
be a comfort to her. This is true obedience. 
It is that obedience which God in heaven ap- 
proves and loves. 

I called often upon this poor widow, and al- 
ways with increasing admiration of this de- 
voted child. One morning, as I entered the 
room, I saw the mother lying upon the bed on 
the floor, with her head in the lap of her daugh- 
ter. She was breathing short and heavy in the 
struggles of death. The tears were rolling 



GRATITUDE. 97 



down the pale cheeks of her daughter, as she 
pressed her hand upon the brow of her dying 
mother. The hour of death had just arrived, 
and the poor mother, in the triumphs of Chris- 
tian faith, with faint and faltering accents, was 
imploring God's blessing upon her dear daughter. 
It was a most affecting farewell. The mother, 
while thus expressing her gratitude to God for 
the kindness of her beloved child, breathed her 
last. And angels must have looked upon that 
humble abode, and upon that affecting scene, 
with emotions of pleasure, which could hardly 
be exceeded by any thing else which the world 
could present. 

O that all children would feel the gratitude 
which this girl felt for a mother's early love ! 
Then would the world be divested of half its sor- 
rows and of half its sins. This is the kind of obe- 
dience which every child should cultivate. You 
should not only do whatever your parents tell 
you to do, with cheerfulness and alacrity, but you 
should be obedient to their wishes. You should 
be watchful for opportunities to give them 
pleasure. You should, at all times, and under 
all circumstances, do every thing in your power 
to relieve them from anxiety, and to make them 
happy. Then can you hope for the approba- 
tion of God, and vour heart will be filled with 



98 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

a joy which the ungrateful child can never feel. 
You can reflect with pleasure upon your con- 
duct. When „your parents are in the grave, 
you will feel no remorse of conscience harrow- 
ing your soul for your past unkindness. And 
when you die yourselves you can anticipate a 
happy meeting with your parents, in that heav- 
enly home, where sin and sorrow, and sickness 
and death, can never come. 

God has, in almost every case, connected 
suffering with sin. And there are related many 
cases in which he has, in this world, most sig- 
nally punished ungrateful children. I read, a 
short time since, an account of an old man, 
who had a drunken and brutal son. This son 
would abuse his aged father without mercy. 
One day, he, in a passion, knocked him flat 
upon the floor, and, seizing him by his gray 
hairs, dragged him across the room to the 
threshold of the door, to cast him out. The 
old man, with his tremulous voice, cried out to 
his unnatural son, " It is enough — it is enough. 
God is just. When I was young, I dragged my 
own father in the same way ; and now God is 
giving me the punishment I deserve." 

Sometimes you will see a son who will not 
be obedient to his mother. He will have his 
own way, regardless of his mother's feelings. 



i 



i 



GRAT1TUD2. 99 



He has grown up to be a stout and stubborn 
boy, and now the ungrateful wretch will, by his 
misconduct, break the heart of that very mother, 
who, for months and years, watched over him 
with a care which knew no weariness. I call 
him a wretch, for I can hardly conceive of more 
enormous iniquity. That boy, or that young 
man, who does not treat his affectionate mother 
with kindness and respect, is worse than I can 
find language to describe. 

Perhaps you say, your mother is at times un- 
reasonable. Perhaps she is so. But what of 
that ? You have been unreasonable ten thou- 
sand times, and she has borne with you and 
loved you. And even if your mother be at 
times unreasonable in her requirements, I ask 
with what propriety you find fault with it. Is 
she to bear with all your cries in infancy, and 
all your fretfulness in childhood, and all your 
ingratitude and wants till you arrive at years 
of discretion, and then, because she wishes you 
to do some little thing which does not exactly 
meet your views, are you to turn upon her like 
a viper and sting her to the heart ? 

The time was, when you were a little infant, 
and then your mother brought paleness to her 
own cheek, and weakness to her own frame, 
that she might give you support. You were 



100 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



sick, and in the cold winter night she would sit 
lonely by the fire, denying herself rest that she 
might lull her babe to sleep. You would cry 




^- 



WATCHFUL CAKE. 



with pain, and hour after hour she would walk 
the floor, carrying you in her arms, till her 
strength failed and her limbs would hardly sup- 
port her, through excess of weariness. The 
bright sun and the cloudless sky would invite 
her to go out for health and enjoyment, but she 
would deny herself the pleasure, and stay at 



GRATITUDE. 101 



home to take care of you, her helpless babe. 
Her friends would solicit her to indulge in the 
pleasures of the social evening party, but she 
would refuse for your sake, and, in the solitude 
of her chamber, she would pass weeks and 
months watching all your wants. 

Thus have years passed away in which you 
have received nothing but kindness from her 
hands ; and can you be so hard-hearted, so un- 
grateful, as now to give her one moment of un- 
necessary pain ? If she have faults, can you 
not bear with them, w T hen she has so long borne 
with you ? Oh, if you knew but the hundredth 
part of what she has suffered and endured for 
your sake, you could not, could not, be such a 
wretch as to requite her with ingratitude. 

A boy who has one particle of generosity 
glowing in his bosom, will cling to his mother 
with an affection which life alone can extin- 
guish. He will never allow her to have a single 
want which he can prevent. And when he 
grows to be a man, he will give her the warm- 
est seat by his fireside, and the choicest food 
upon his table. If necessary, he will deprive 
himself of comforts, that he may cheer her de- 
clining years. He will prove by actions which 
can not be misunderstood, that he feels a grati- 
tude for a mother's love, which shall never, 



102 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

never leave him. And when she goes down to 
the grave in death, he will bedew her grave with 
the honorable tears of manly feeling. The son 
who does not feel thus, is unworthy of a moth- 
er's love ; the frown of his offended Maker must 
be upon him, and he must render to Him an 
awful account for his ungrateful conduct. 

It is, if possible, stranger still, that any daugh- 
ter can forget a mother's care. You are al- 
ways at home. You see your mother's solici- 
tude. You are familiar with her heart. If you 
ever treat your mother with unkindness, re- 
member that the time may come when your 
own heart will be broken by the misconduct of 
those who will be as dear to you as your moth- 
er's children are to her. And you may ask 
yourself whether you would be pleased with an 
exhibition of ungrateful feeling from a child 
whom you had loved and cherished with the 
tenderest care. God may reward you, even in 
this world, according to your deeds. And if 
he does not, he certainly will in the world to 
come. A day of judgment is at hand, and the 
ungrateful child has as fearful an account to 
render as any one who will stand at that bar. 

I have just spoken to you of the grateful girl 
who took such good care of her poor sick 
mother. When that good girl dies, and meets 



GRATITUDE. 103 



her mother in heaven, what a happy meeting 
it will be ! With how much joy will she reflect 
upon her dutifulness as a child ! And as they 
dwell together again in the celestial mansions, 
sorrow and sighing will forever flee away. If 
you wish to be happy here or hereafter, honor 
your father and your mother. Let love's pure 
flame burn in your heart and animate your life. 
Be brave, and fear not to do your duty. Be 
magnanimous, and do more for your parents 
than they require or expect. Resolve that you 
will do every thing in your power to make 
them happy, and you will be blest as a child, 
and useful and respected in your maturer years. 
Oh, how lovely is that son or daughter who has 
a grateful heart, and who will rather die than 
give a mother sorrow ! Such a one is not only 
loved by all upon earth, but by the angels above 
and by our Father in heaven. 

It may assist you a little to estimate your 
obligations to your parents, to inquire what 
would become of you if your parents should re- 
fuse to take care of you any longer. You, at 
times, perhaps, feel unwilling to obey them : 
suppose they should say, 

" Very well, my child, if you are unwilling to 
obey us, you may go away from home, and take 
care of yourself. We can not be at the trouble 



104 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

and expense of taking care of you unless you 
feel some gratitude." 

" Well," perhaps you would say, " let me 
have my cloak and bonnet, and I will go imme- 
diately." 

" Your cloak and bonnet I" your mother 
would reply. " The cloak and bonnet are not 
yours, but your father's. He bought them and 
paid for them. Why do you call them yours ?" 

You might possibly reply, after thinking a 
moment, " They are mine because you gave 
them to me." 

" No, my child," your mother would say, 
" we have only let you have them to wear. 
You never have paid for them. You have not 
even paid us for the use of them. We wish to 
keep them for those of our children who are 
grateful for our kindness. Even the clothes 
you now have on are not yours. We will, 
however, give them to you; and now suppose 
you should go, and see how you can get along 
in taking care of yourself." 

You rise to leave the house without any bon- 
net or cloak. But your mother says, "Stop 
one moment. Is there not an account to be 
settled before you leave ? We have now 
clothed and fed you for ten years. The trouble 
and expense, at the least calculation, amount to 



GRATITUDE. 105 



two dollars a-week. Indeed, I do not suppose 
that you could have got any one else to have 
taken you so cheap. Your board, for ten years, 
at two dollars a-week, amounts to one thousand 
and forty dollars. Are you under no obligation 
to us for all this trouble and expense ?" 

You hang down your head and do not know 
what to say. What can you say ? You have 
no money. You can not pay them. 

Your mother, after waiting a moment for an 
answer, continues, " In many cases, when a 
person does not pay what is justly due, he is 
sent to jail. We, however, will be particularly 
kind to you, and wait awhile. Perhaps you 
can, by working for fifteen or twenty years, and 
by being very economical, earn enough to pay 
us. But let me see ; the interest of the money 
will be over sixty dollars a year. Oh, no ! it is 
out of the question. You probably could not 
earn enough to pay us in your whole life. We 
never shall be paid for the time, expense, and 
care, we have devoted to our ungrateful daugh- 
ter. We hoped she would love us, and obey 
us, and thus repay. But it seems she prefers to 
be ungrateful and disobedient. Good-bye." 

You open the door and go out. It is cold 
and windy. Shivering with the cold, and with- 
out money, you are at once a beggar, and must 



106 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



perish in the streets, unless some one takes 
pity on you. 

You go, perhaps, to the house of a friend, 
and ask if they will allow you to live with 
them. 

They at once reply, " We have so many chil- 
dren of our own, that we can not afford to take 
you, unless you will pay for your board and 
clothing." 

You go again out into the street, cold, hun- 
gry, and friendless. 
The darkness of 
the night is com- 
ing on ; you have 
no money to pur- 
chase a supper, or 
a night's lodging. 
Unless you can get 
some employment, 
or find some one 
who will pity you, 
you must lie down 
upon the hard 
ground, and perish 




HELPLESSNESS 



with hunger and with cold. 

Perhaps some benevolent man sees you as he 
is going home in the evening, and takes you to 
the overseers of the poor, and says, " Here is a 



GRATITUDE. 107 



little vagrant girl I found in the streets. We 
must send the poor little thing to the poor-house, 
or she will starve to death." 

You are carried to the poor-house. There 
you find a very different home from your 
father's. You are dressed in the coarsest gar- 
ments. You have the meanest food, and are 
compelled to be obedient, and to do the most 
servile work. 

Now, suppose, while you are in the poor- 
house, some kind gentleman and lady should 
come and say, " We will take this little girl, and 
give her food and clothes for nothing. We will 
take her into our own parlor, and give her a 
chair by our own pleasant fireside. We will 
buy every thing for her that she needs. We 
will hire persons to teach her. We will do 
every thing in our power to make her happy, 
and will not ask for any thing from her in re- 
turn." 

What should you think of such kindness ? 
And what should you think of yourself, if you 
could go to their parlor, and receive their 
bounty, and yet be ungrateful and disobedient ? 
Would not a child who could thus requite such 
love, be deserving of universal detestation ? 
But all this your parents are doing, and for 
years have been doing for you. They pay for 



108 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

the fire that warms you ; for the house that shel- 
ters you ; for the clothes that cover you ; for 
the food that supports you ! They watch over 
your bed in sickness, and provide for your in- 
struction and enjoyment when in health ! Your 
parents do all this without money and without 
price. Now, whenever you feel ill-humored, or 
disposed to murmur at any of their require- 
ments, just look a moment and see how the ac- 
count stands. Inquire what would be the con- 
sequence, if they should refuse to take care of 
you. 

The child who does not feel grateful for all 
this kindness, must be more unfeeling than the 
brutes. How can you refrain from doing every 
thing in your power to make those happy who 
have loved you so long, and have conferred 
upon you so many favors ! If you have any 
thing noble or generous in your nature, it must 
be excited by a parent's love. 

We sometimes see a child who receives all 
these favors from her parents as though they 
were her due. She appears to have no con- 
sciousness of obligation ; no heart of gratitude. 
Such a child is a disgrace to human nature. 
Even the very fowls of the air, and cattle of the 
fields, love their parents. They put to shame 
the ungrateful child. 



GRATITUDE. 109 



You can form no conception of that devoted- 
ness of love which your mother cherishes for 
you. She is willing to suffer almost every thing 
to save you from pain. She will, to protect 
you, face death in its most terrific form. An 
English gentleman tells the following affecting 
story, to show how ardently a mother loves her 
child. 

" I was once going, in my gig, up the hill in 
the village of Frankford, near Philadelphia, when 
a little girl about two years old, who had toddled 
away from a small house, was lying basking in 
the sun, in the middle of the road. About two 
hundred yards before I got to the child, the 
teams of three wagons, five big horses in each, 
the drivers of which had stopped to drink at a 
tavern at the brow of the hill, started off, and 
came nearly abreast, galloping down the road. 
I got my gig off the road as speedily as I could, 
but expected to see the poor child crushed to 
death. A young man, a journeyman carpenter, 
who was shingling a shed by the roadside, see- 
ing the child, and seeing the danger, though a 
stranger to the parents, jumped from the top of 
the shed, ran into the road, and snatched up the 
child from just before the hoof of the leading 
horse. The horse's leg knocked him down ; 
but he, catching the child by its clothes, drew 



110 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

it out of the way of the other horses, and saved 
himself by rolling back with surprising agility. 
The mother of the child, seeing the teams com- 
ing, and the dreadful danger of the child, had 
come out from the house, and, rushing forward, 
would have thrown herself directly under the 
feet of the horses, if the carpenter had not in- 
terposed and pushed her back just as he seized 
the child. The mother grasped her child as 
soon as it was within her reach, and clasping it 
in her arms, uttered a shriek, such as I never 
heard before or since ; and then she dropped 
down as if perfectly dead. By the application 
of the usual means, she was restored, however, 
in a little while, and I, being about to depart, 
asked the carpenter if he were a married man, 
and whether he were a relation of the parents 
of the child. He said he was neither. ' Well, 
then,' said I, ■ you merit the gratitude of every 
father and mother in the world, and I will show 
you mine by giving you what I have/ — pulling 
out the nine or ten dollars which I had in my 
pocket. ' No, I thank you, sir,' said he, ' I have 
only done what it was my duty to do/ 

" Bravery, disinterestedness, and maternal 
affection surpassing these it is impossible to 
imagine. The mother was going directly in 
among the feet of these powerful and wild 



GRATITUDE. Ill 



horses, and among the wheels of the wagons. 
She had no thought for herself; no feeling of 
fear for her own life ; her shriek was the sound 
of inexpressible joy, joy too great for her to 
support herself under." 

Now, can you conceive a more ungrateful 
wretch, than that boy would be, if he should 
grow up, not to love or obey his mother ? She 
was willing to die for him. She was willing to 
run directly under the feet of the horses, that 
she might save his life. And if he has one par- 
ticle of generosity in his bosom, he will do every 
thing in his power to make her happy. 

But your mother loves you as well as did that 
mother love her child. She is as willing to 
expose herself to danger and to death. And 
can you ever bear the thought of causing grief 
to her whose love is so strong ; whose kindness 
is so great ? It appears to me that the gener- 
ous-hearted boy, who thinks of these things, 
must resolve to be his mother's joy and bless- 
ing- 

A few years ago a child was lost in one of 
those vast plains in the west, called prairies. A 
gentleman who was engaged in the search for 
the child, thus describes the scene. It forcibly 
shows the strength of a mother's love. 

"In the year 1821 I was stationed on the 



112 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

Mad River circuit. You know there are ex- 
tensive prairies in that part of the state. In 
places, there are no dwellings within miles of 
each other ; and animals of prey are often seen 
there. One evening, late in autumn, a few of 
the neighbors were assembled around me, in one 
of those solitary dwellings, and we had got well 
engaged in the worship of God, when it was 
announced that the child of a widow was lost 
in the prairie. It was cold ; the wind blew ; 
and some rain was falling. The poor woman 
was in agony, and our meeting was broken up. 
All prepared to go in search of the lost child. 
The company understood the business better 
than I did, for they had been bred in those ex- 
tensive barrens ; and occurrences like the pres- 
ent are, probably, not unfrequent among them. 
" They equipped themselves with lanterns and 
torches, for it was quite dark ; and tin horns, to 
give signals to different parts of the company, 
when they should become widely separated. For 
my part, I thought duty required that I should 
take charge of the unhappy mother. She was 
nearly frantic ; and as time permitted her to 
view her widowed and" childless condition, and 
the circumstances of the probable death of her 
child, her misery seemed to double upon her. 
She took my arm ; the company divided into 



GRATITUDE. 113 



parties; and, taking different directions, we 
commenced the search. The understanding 
was, that, when the child should be found, a 
certain sound of the horn should be made, and 
that all who should hear it should repeat the 
signal. In this way all the company would re- , 
ceive the information. 

" The prospect of finding a lost child in those 
extensive prairies, would, at any time, be suffi- 
ciently discouraging. The difficulty must be 
greatly increased by a dark, rainy night. We 
traveled many miles, and to a late hour. At 
length we became satisfied that further search 
would be unavailing; and all but the mother 
determined to return home. It was an idea she 
could not, for a moment, endure. She would 
hear of nothing but further search. Her 
strength, at last, began to fail her, and I pre- 
vailed on her to return to her abode. As she 
turned her face from further search, and gave 
up her child as lost, her misery was almost too 
great for endurance. 'My child,' said she, 
' has been devoured by a wild beast ; his little 
limbs have been torn asunder ; and his blood 
been drunk by the hideous monster,' — and the 
idea was agony. As she clung to my arm, it 
seemed as if her heart-strings would break, 

H 



114 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

At times I had almost to support her in my 
arms, to prevent her falling to the earth. 

"As we proceeded on our way back, I 
thought I heard, at a great distance, the sound 
of a horn. We stopped and listened ; it was 
repeated. It was the concerted signal. The 
child was found. And what were the feelings 
of the mother !" Language can not describe 
them. Such is the strength of maternal affec- 
tion. 

And can a child be so hard-hearted as not to 
love a mother ? Is there any thing which can 
be more ungrateful than to grieve one who 
loves you so ardently, and who has done so 
much for you ? 

If there be any crime which in the sight of 
God is greater than all others, it appears to me 
it must be an unkind and ungrateful treatment 
of parents. If the spirit of a demon dwells in 
any human breast, it must be in that breast 
which is thankless for parental favors, and 
which can requite that love, which watched 
over our infancy and protected our helpless 
years, with ingratitude and disrespect. 



CHAPTER V. 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 



Some time ago, a clergyman was conversing 
with me, in my study, and he took up a book, 
called an Encyclopedia. Turning over the 
pages, he happened to come to the name of 
Levi Parsons. Perhaps the young reader 
knows that Levi Parsons was one of the most 
distinguished missionaries of the American 
Board. He went to Jerusalem, and preached 
the gospel there. He then went to Alexandria, 
in Egypt, where he died a very happy death. 

Said the gentleman, as he read the name, 
Levi Parsons, " I used to know him very well. 
When he was a boy about ten years old, we 
went to Leicester Academy together. I can 
remember perfectly how he then looked, and 
how he used to be dressed. When we left 
school, for a great many years I heard nothing 
about him. I could not learn whether he was 
living or dead. At last, when I had grown up 
to manhood, and was settled in the ministry, in 



116 THE CHILD AT HOME. 



the interior of the state of New York, one day 
a gentleman called upon me, as an agent of the 
American Board, and wished to present the 
cause of missions to my congregation. He in- 
troduced himself as Mr. Parsons. 

" In the course of conversation, it occurred 
to me that he might be the same person whom 
I had known as a little boy in Leicester Acad- 
emy." 

" Did you ever go to Leicester Academy ?" 
said I. 

" Yes," he replied, " nearly fifteen years ago, 
I was there a short time." 

"I knew you then," said the gentleman, 
" very well ; and if you had looked now as you 
then did, I should have known you at once. I 
have often felt very desirous to know what had 
become of you, and have made many inquiries, 
but could never learn where you were." 

" Why," said Mr. Parsons, " did you feel so 
much interest in me ?" 

" Because," said the gentleman, " you were 
then the most conscientious boy I ever knew, 
and I felt greatly interested to know what kind 
of a man such a boy would make." 

" Well," said Mr. Parsons, " if I am a Chris- 
tian now, I think I was then. I am not aware 
of any important change in my character, since 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 117 

that time. And though I had not then a sus- 
picion that I was a Christian, so far as I can 
judge, if I am now governed by Christian mo- 
tives, I then was." 

This anecdote interested me very much, be- 
cause it came in confirmation of my whole ex- 
perience, that the conscientious boy is a Chris- 
tian. 

I never knew a boy or a girl who was con- 
scientious, who seemed really desirous of doing 
that which was right, who did not, in mature 
years, give evidence of piety, and become an 
active and useful Christian. In fact, there can 
scarcely be better evidence of the piety of a 
child, or of a man, than conscientiousness. If 
a boy is sincerely desirous of doing that which 
his conscience tells him to be duty ; if this be 
his habitual frame of mind, exhibited at home 
and at school, with parents, with teachers, with 
playmates, we want no better evidence, nay, 
we want no other evidence, that he is a child 
of God. With this disposition he will pray for 
guidance ; he will read the Bible with a humble 
and teachable spirit, and, conscious of his 
many failings, he will be penitent for sin, and 
seek the aid of the Holy Spirit to resist temp- 
tation. 

Does any boy ask, How am I to serve the 



118 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

Savior? I reply, Be conscientious. Do you 
ask, How am I to secure God's favor in this 
world, and happiness in the world to come ? I 
reply, Be conscientious. Let it be your settled 
principle always to try to do that which you 
think to be right. 

Sometimes young persons think they wish to 
be Christians, and to be prepared to die, and 
yet are perplexed to know just what they ought 
to do to become Christians. 

The very first direction to be given is, in all 
things — conscientiously try to do that which is 
right. 

1. In obedience to your parents. Conscience 
tells you always pleasantly and immediately to 
obey them. It not only tells you to do what 
they command you to do, but to do whatever 
you think they would like to have you do. 
Even if you obey them, but yet do it reluct- 
antly, with unsubmissive feelings, and a frown 
upon your face, conscience at once tells you 
that you are doing wrong. 

I have heard conscience compared with the 
bell on the railroad locomotive. You know 
that when the cars approach what is called a 
railroad crossing, they ring the bell, to give 
warning of the danger. So when you are 
doing or about to do any thing that is wrong, 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 119 

conscience rings the bell. You all hear its 
warning. Can any of you look back upon any 
act of disobedience or unkindness to your 
parents ? Did not conscience ring the bell ? 
Did you not feel within you that you were 
doing wrong ? 

2. Conscience will tell you, in the second 
place, how to act in all your plays with broth- 
ers and sisters and companions. When you 
are pleasant and obliging, and do that which is 
right, you are happy, for conscience approves. 
If you do this with the desire of pleasing God, 
you are manifesting a Christian spirit. When 
you are disobliging, and ill-humored, and unjust, 
you are unhappy, for conscience condemns. 

A little girl once went to bed at night, and 
about an hour afterward her mother heard her 
sobbing. She went up stairs, and inquired the 
cause. The child sobbed still more violently, 
and told her mother she could not go to sleep, 
she felt so unhappy. Her mother inquired 
what made her so unhappy. It was some time 
before she could summon resolution to explain 
the cause of her distress ; the cause was that 
she had that day told her a lie ; she had told 
her mother that she did not strike her sister, 
which she did. Her mother talked with her a 
little while, and afterward prayed with her^ 



120 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

that God would forgive her sin ; the girl then 
fell quietly asleep. 

Now, why was it that this child was so un- 
happy ? It was because conscience was ring- 
ing the bell — thus warning her that she was in 
danger — that she must not go to sleep till she 
had confessed her sin, and asked forgiveness. 
And why was it that, after having confessed 
her sin, she could so quietly fall asleep? It 
was because conscience was then pacified. 
How kind is it in God to give us such a guide, 
to tell us every day what to do, and what not 
to do! 

Obey this inward voice, and it will be every 
hour a faithful friend, and will guide you safely 
and surely, to heaven. It will tell you what is 
right, in all your plays and in all your studies — 
at home — at school — on the Sabbath. When 
you read the Bible, read of a Savior's dying 
love, of the Holy Spirit sent to help you, con- 
science will tell you with what spirit to receive 
such instructions, and how to obey them. 

Show me a boy who is thus conscientious, 
who tries to please his parents, and make his 
brothers and sisters and companions good and 
happy, and I have hardly a doubt that, that child 
is a Christian. This is the way for you to come 
to the Savior. Because conscientiously doing 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 121 

your duty, implies penitence for doing wrong. 
This is having a new heart. For the only sat- 
isfactory evidence which can be given that you 
have a new heart is, that you endeavor to please 
your Maker. 

I presume that this is one of the principal 
causes of the happiness of the angels in heaven. 
They all endeavor to do right, and thus their 
consciences and hearts are always at peace. 
Consequently they always feel happy. And in 
the thronged streets of the New Jerusalem, and 
by the still waters and green pastures of that 
celestial world, and where they spread their 
wings in the wide expanse of the highest heav- 
ens, they exult and rejoice in perfect holiness 
and love. 

You must ere long die. You may die soon. 
Are you prepared ? Suppose you were now to 
die, and to appear before God in judgment. 
Do you think that it would then appear that 
you had always conscientiously endeavored to 
do right ? Do you think that angels would 
wish to have you come and live with them ? 

This conscientious desire to do every thing 
that is pleasing to God, is the evidence of a 
"new heart." God says to us that we must 
have a new heart, and promises, in answer to 
our prayers, to give us one. Now, the only 



122 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

evidence we can have that our hearts are 
changed, is from the feelings that we cherish. 

The boy who is self-willed, who is disobedient, 
who is idle, has certainly the old heart of unbe- 
lief. He is unrenewed. And until he has been 
born again, he can never enter heaven. If he 
should die in this state, he must perish for- 
ever. 

The boy who earnestly desires to know what 
his duty is, and tries to do it ; who prays sin- 
cerely to God every morning and every even- 
ing, that he may be delivered from temptation, 
and be made holy; who studies diligently in 
school, because he thinks it will please God ; 
who is respectful to his instructor, kind to his 
playmates, obedient to his parents, because he 
conscientiously desires to do his duty — that boy 
has a new heart ; that boy has been born again ; 
that boy is a Christian. 

I have known many children who, I had no 
doubt, were Christians, though they never knew 
the time when their hearts were changed. 

If I am to judge whether a boy is a Chris- 
tian, I wish to see how he conducts himself 
when playing a game of ball, or sliding down 
hill. 

Does he bear an insult patiently ? Does he 
try to make peace on the play-ground ? Does 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 123 

he, in the employments and the pleasures of his 
boyhood, endeavor in all things to do that which 
his conscience tells him is right ? These are 
the evidences of piety. They are among the 
strongest evidences which can be afforded. No 
other evidences are of any avail without these. 

If you wish to know whether an apple-tree 
is a good one, the only way is to taste of one 
of its apples. You judge of the tree by its 
fruits. Just so the Savior says it is with the 
heart. The only way in which you can tell 
whether it is changed or unchanged, renewed or 
unrenewed, is by its fruits. 

Just so it is with men. The only evidence 
we can have that any one is a Christian, is by 
his conduct. If a man loves to pray, loves to 
read his Bible, loves the Sabbath ; if he tries to 
induce his fellow-men to repent of sin, and turn 
to God ; if, in all his intercourse with his fellow- 
men, he endeavors to be upright, and obliging, 
and benevolent ; if, as he contemplates a world 
lost in sin, he manifests a deep interest in send- 
ing the gospel to every nation and tribe, — we 
judge him to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. We 
think his works show that his heart is right. 
And we think that, for the sake of the Savior, 
who has died for sinners, all his sins are for- 
given. 



124 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

If, on the other hand, we see a man who is 
prayerless ; who has no prayers in his family ; 
who does not seem to love the Bible ; who mani- 
fests little or no interest in the spiritual welfare 
of sinners, — we judge at once that that man is 
not a Christian. No matter what he may pro- 
fess. His conduct shows that his heart is un- 
changed. By their fruits shall ye know them, 
says Christ. 

Some persons have thought that it is very 
difficult to understand what is meant by a 
" change of heart." But it seems to me that, 
as to all practical purposes, it is very simple and 
plain. 

We use the word heart, in this connection, 
just as it is used in poetry and romance, the 
world over ; just as it is used by savage tribes 
and by civilized nations. 

" My husband has given me every thing but 
his heart," said a lady, mourning over the cold- 
ness and want of affection which her husband 
manifested. Is not her meaning very plain ? 
She sits alone by the winter's fire, as he is ab- 
sent in the gay revel, and she prays, " Turn his 
heart, O God, from his mirthful associates, and 
fix it upon his family and upon thee." Can any 
one misunderstand such language ? 

The Sandwich Islanders invariably allude to 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 125 

the days of their idolatry, as the time of dark 
hearts, and speak with gratitude of the new heart 
which God has given them. 

A short time ago, an Indian chief was ad- 
dressing a band of his brother warriors around 
their council-fire, in the wilderness, west of the 
Rocky Mountains. The circumstances were 
these. This chief had been, for many years, 
one of the most relentless foes of the white 
man. He had left no means untried to fan into 
fury the fierce passions of the much injured 
red man, and he often raised the storm of war 
upon the scattered settlers on our borders. He 
had been induced by the United States com- 
missioners, who were endeavoring to effect a 
treaty with his tribe, to visit the President at 
Washington. He was received by the Pres- 
ident with great attention, was loaded with 
presents, and was assured that the United States 
government would do all in its power to live in 
peace with his tribe, and to promote its welfare. 
This unexpected kindness completely won the 
warrior's heart. He returned on his pathless 
way, along the mighty rivers, and across the 
lakes and mountains of the western world, to 
meet his tribe in their hunting-grounds. 

The fierce " braves" lighted their council-fire, 
and gathered around it, to welcome the return 



126 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

of their chieftain. He stood in the center of 
the ring to address them. Every form was 
motionless, and every eye fixed to hear his 
words. 

Said he, " I have been to Washington. I saw 
our great father. I went with the heart of an 
Indian. 1 hated the white man. Our great 
father took me by the hand. He spoke kindly 
to me. He promised love to my tribe. He 
took away my Indian's heart, and gave me a 
new heart. Ever since then I have had a white 
mans heart." 

How appropriate ! how plain ! Could he 
have used language more expressive ? Is it 
not the most concise and intelligible declara- 
tion of the change from hostility to affection ? 
Is it not the very language the Bible uses — 
which God declares to be so plain, that he that 
runneth may read, and that the wayfaring man, 
though uninstructed, need not err therein? 

The change of heart, which the Bible en- 
joins, as to its practical evidences and results, is 
by no means of a mysterious or unintelligible 
nature. It is difficult to conceive of any thing 
more simple. 

Here is a boy who neglects prayer. He does 
not love to pray, or to think of God. He is 
disobedient to his parents, often quarrels with 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 127 

his playmates, and is every day doing many 
things which he knows to be wrong. He does 
not repent of this conduct. He does not ask 
God's forgiveness for it. Now he has mani- 
festly the heart of an impenitent sinner; the 
heart of one unreconciled to God, and he must 
have a " new heart," or he can never be re- 
ceived to heaven. There is not an angel in 
heaven who would not be unwilling that such 
a person should be admitted into those happy 
realms. 

Here is another boy who is conscientious in 
all he does and says. He prays every morning 
and every evening that God will take care of 
him and preserve him from sin. He loves the 
Savior. He is a peacemaker on the play- 
ground. He is diligent in improving his time, 
that he may become a useful man. He is very 
attentive to his parents, and does all that he 
can to make them happy. This boy is a Chris- 
tian. He has a new heart. God loves him. 
Angels love him. When he dies, all the angels 
in heaven will welcome him to their joys. 

Do you ask, How am I to get this new heart ? 
You are to get it by praying to God for a heart 
to love him, and by cherishing these feelings of 
dependence and affection. And when you find 
that you are truly conscientious, that you do 



128 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

love to serve your Maker, that you are really 
penitent whenever you do any thing wrong, 
you may " hope" that you are a Christian. 

Conscience will warn you when you are 
going to do wrong, and she will punish you 
with reproaches and stings afterward, if you 
do not heed her warnings. Sometimes con- 
science slumbers a long time, and then suddenly 
awakens from her sleep, and torments the soul 
with the remembrance of past sins. 

Many cases of this kind occur among men 
guilty of great crimes. The following true story 
illustrates this : — 

A jeweller in England, a man of good char- 
acter and considerable wealth, having occasion, 
in the way of his business, to travel to some 
distance from the place of his abode, took along 
with him a servant, in order to take care of his 
portmanteau. He had with him some of his 
best jewels, and a large sum of money. The 
♦ servant knew that his master had these things, 
and determined to rob him. At length, when 
in a solitary place in a wood, the servant, 
watching his opportunity, at a moment when 
his master had dismounted in the road, took a 
pistol from his master's saddle, and shot him 
dead on the spot. He then rifled him of his 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 



129 




THE fiOBBEBI, 



jewels and money, and, hanging a large stone 
to his neck, threw him into the nearest canal. 

With his booty the servant made off to a dis- 
tant part of the country, where he had reason 
to believe that neither he nor his master was 
known. There he began to trade in a small 
way at first, that his obscurity might screen 
him from observation, and in the course of sev- 
eral years seemed to rise, by the natural prog- 
ress of business, into wealth and considera- 
I 



130 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

tion ; so that his good fortune appeared at once 
the effect and reward of industry and virtue. 
In fact, he counterfeited the appearance of in- 
dustry and virtue so well, that he grew into 
great credit, married into a good family, and by 
laying out his hidden stores discreetly, as he 
saw occasion, and joining to all a universal af- 
fability, he was admitted to a share in the gov- 
ernment of the town, and rose from one post to 
another, till at length he was chosen chief ma- 
gistrate. In this office he maintained a fair 
character, and continued to fill it with no small 
applause, both as a governor and a judge ; till 
one day, as he sat on the bench with some of 
his brethren, he himself presiding, a criminal 
was brought before him who was accused of 
murdering his master. The evidence came out 
full ; the jury brought in the verdict that the 
prisoner was guilty; and the whole assembly 
waited the sentence of the presiding judge. 

In the mean while, the judge himself mani- 
fested an unusual disorder and agitation of 
mind, and his color often changed ; at length 
he arose from his seat, and, coming down from 
the bench, placed himself just by the unfortu- 
nate man at the bar. " You see before you," 
said he, addressing himself to those who had sat 
on the bench with him, " a striking instance of 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 131 

the just retaliation of Heaven, which, this day, 
after thirty years' concealment, presents to you 
a greater criminal than the man just now found 
guilty." He then proceeded to make an ample 
confession of his guilt, and of all its aggrava- 
tions. " Nor can I feel," continued he, " any 
relief from the agonies of an awakened con- 
science, but by requiring that justice be forth- 
with done against me in the most public and 
solemn manner." We may easily suppose the 
amazement of the whole assembly, and espe- 
cially of his fellow-judges. However, they 
proceeded, upon this confession, to pass sen- 
tence upon him ; and he died with all the 
symptoms of a penitent mind. 

Such is the power of conscience. But what 
is conscience ? It is not easy to define this 
wonderful faculty. It has been called the voice 
of God in the soul. But though it may not be 
easily defined, there is not a word in the Eng- 
lish language, which is more perfectly and im- 
pressively intelligible than conscience. There 
is something within, which gives us pleasure 
when we do that which we think to be right, 
and pain when we do that which we consider 
wrong. Conscience is both judge and execu- 
tioner. She decides upon the right or the 



132 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

wrong of actions, and accordingly applies the 
reward or the scourge. 

God has given to each one of us this guide. 
And I earnestly desire that all the readers of 
this book may be inspired with a sense of the 
value of conscience, and with the determination 
to be very careful in obeying all its decisions. 

Endeavor to obtain an enlightened con- 
science. Like every other faculty of the mind, 
or affection of the heart, conscience is suscept- 
ible of great improvement. By cultivation, it 
becomes very sensitive and accurate, and gives 
warning of the least approach of danger. It 
becomes the sensitive barometer of the soul, 
pointing with its unerring finger to approaching 
storms, unrevealed to the eye. It is, indeed, 
sometimes the case, that when the mind is not 
sufficiently instructed to explain why a particular 
act is sinful, conscience, more enlightened and 
discriminating, warns us of danger. We often 
see a very young child, almost instinctively 
avoiding that which is wrong, even when the 
child is by no means able to explain why the 
particular act is wrong. Often too we see, al- 
most in infancy, evidences of conscious guilt. 

Reflect too upon the happy effects of scrupu- 
lously obeying the voice of conscience. Con- 
science thus obeyed is the sure guide to tran- 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 133 

quillity and joy. You sometimes see a person 
who appears to be above the temptation of do- 
ing any thing that is wrong. She is, as it were, 
instinctively kind, disinterested, and obliging. 
As she advances in years, she gains the victory 
over nearly all the infirmities of human nature. 
Each victory makes the succeeding temptation 
weaker, and increases the power of resistance. 
The soul becomes tranquil and happy, and 
Satan, discomfited and put to flight year after 
year, is discouraged with his unsuccessful efforts, 
and withdraws in despair. 

You, my young reader, have probably at 
times experienced something of this yourself. 
When you have been for a season unusually 
faithful in prayer, watchful over your own heart, 
and conscientious in duty, how serene have been 
your feelings ! how easy has it seemed to rise 
above those temptations, which at other times 
have appeared almost irresistible ! The fear 
of others loses its dominion over you. Passion 
is subdued. Ambition, selfishness, vanity, the 
love of ease, the love of pleasure, — all are van- 
quished, and you experience the full enjoyment 
of the promise, " Thou wilt keep him in perfect 
peace, whose mind is stayed on thee." 

We do not make sufficient effort for moral 
improvement. We ought to be continually 



134 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

aiming at higher elevation in perfection of char- 
acter. As the passion-flower recoils at a touch, 
so should our refined and sensitive consciences 
recoil at the least approach of evil. It is not 
enough that our hearts yield to the remorseful 
reproaches of conscience when deeply wounded ; 
we should cherish such delicacy and tender- 
ness, that the faintest whisperings of this inward 
monitor, may be thankfully heard and heeded. 
Beware how you parley with temptation. Be- 
ware how you indulge in any dalliance with 
sin. Beware how you disregard the mildest ad- 
monitions of this faithful guide. The first step 
may be a short one, but it is the entrance upon 
a long road of wretchedness and ruin. You 
may deem the act a trifling one, so trifling that 
it can hardly be called a sin ; but when you 
once commence in wrong-doing, you know not 
where to stop. 

You should resolve that you will not allow 
yourself, on any occasion, to do that which you 
think to be wrong. Let the consequences be 
what they may, determine in the fear of God 
that you will do that, and that only, which you 
think to be right. Thus only can you have a 
conscience void of offense. Thus only can 
you come to the Savior, and be accepted of 
him. Thus only can you be happy in this world, 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 135 

or be preparing for happiness in the world to 
come. 

What, my reader, is the state of your con- 
science ? Is it tender and highly cultivated ? 
Are you carefully obeying all its teachings ? 
Perhaps you have not sincerely repented of sin, 
and surrendered yourself to the Savior. If so, 
surely conscience can not be silent ; its re- 
proaches must be loud and long. Does not con- 
science at times lift up against you the loudest 
thunders of her indignant remonstrance ? Does 
she not reproach you with the disregard of a 
Savior's love, with slighting the warnings and 
disobeying the commands of your heavenly 
Father ? Can you be willing to continue in 
doing this great wrong, this great violence to 
conscience ? 

It is impossible to be happy even in this life, 
without an approving conscience. There are 
few persons who have entered upon life with 
more favorable prospects for earthly happiness 
than Wilberforce. Every thing which life 
could present to fascinate, was spread before 
him, and was within his reach. But the want 
of an approving conscience marred every joy. 
" Often," he says, " while in the full enjoyment 
of all that this world could bestow, my con- 
science told me that in the true sense of the 



130 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

word I was not a Christian. I laughed, I sang, 
I was apparently gay and happy ; but the 
thought would steal over me, ' What madness 
is all this, to continue easy in a state in which 
a sudden call out of the world would consign 
me to everlasting misery, and that when eternal 
happiness is within my grasp !' " 

Commence immediately a conscientious life. 
Do not say that you will wait for a more con- 
venient season. A season more convenient 
than the present will probably never come. 

The life of most persons is made up of resolu- 
tions formed only to be broken. We resolve, 
and re-resolve, and yet live the same. Con- 
science urges us to the performance of some 
particular duty ; to be more watchful over our 
tempers ; to be more attentive to our parents 
and friends ; to be more devoted to God. We 
resolve that we will amend, and yet continue 
to yield to temptation. Thus life too frequently 
glides away filled with broken resolutions and 
unavailing regrets. Each night finds the mind 
disquieted with the consciousness of duties neg- 
lected during the day. And when we lie down 
upon a dying bed, and look back upon the days 
and the years which are gone, it is with lamen- 
tation that our good resolutions have been so 
continually broken. How many have bitterly 



CONSCIENTIOUSNESS. 137 

exclaimed in the hour of death, " O how differ- 
ently would I live, if I were to pass through life 
again !" 

How unwise is it to spend life in such a 
manner as to bring so much distress and an- 
guish upon the soul at its close ; especialiy, as 
by so doing we deprive ourselves during the 
whole course of life, of all substantial peace and 
happiness. 

It is not necessary to live so. There are 
many who are continually making progress in 
moral excellence, whose " path is as the shining 
light, growing brighter and brighter unto the 
perfect day." As years glide on, they ascend 
higher and higher into the serene and cloudless 
regions of religious joy. Carefully attending to 
the voice of conscience, they gain conquests 
over their passions, their appetites, and the in- 
firmities of their corrupt nature, and find even 
in this life that perfect peace, which God will 
give those whose minds are stayed on him. 

These, my young reader, are the plain prin- 
ciples of the Bible. This is the path, which 
God has pointed out, to happiness and to heav- 
en. If you will endeavor, conscientiously and 
perseveringly, to obey the directions which are 
here presented to you, you will be shielded from 
many dangers and many sorrows. Your days 



138 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

here on earth will probably glide away in tran- 
quillity and peace ; and when the hour arrives 
for you to lie down upon the bed of death, you 
can look back upon the past with some degree 
of satisfaction, and onward to the future with 
well-founded anticipations of acceptance at 
God's bar ; and, having sweetly fallen asleep in 
Jesus, you will awake in heaven. 



CHAPTER VI. 

RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

In this chapter I shall consider the subject 
of religious truth. That you may understand 
your duties, it is important that you should first 
understand your own character in the sight of 
God. I can, perhaps, make this plain to you by 
the following illustration : 

A few years since a ship sailed from England 
to explore the Northern Ocean. As it was a 
voyage of no common danger to face the storms 
and the tempests of those icy seas, a crew of 
experienced seamen were obtained, and placed 
under the guidance of a commander of long- 
tried skill. As the ship sailed from an English 
port, in pleasant weather and with favorable 
breezes, all was harmony on board, and every 
man was obedient to the lawful commander. 
As weeks passed away, and the ship pressed 
forward on the wide waste of waters, there 
were occasional acts of neglect of duty among 
the crew. Still the commander retained his 



140 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



authority. No one ventured to refuse to be in 
subjection to him. But as the ship advanced 
farther and farther into those unexplored re- 
gions, new toils and dangers came upon the 

men. The cold 
blasts of those win- 
try regions chilled 
their limbs. Moun- 
tains of ice, dashed 
about by the tem- 
pests, threatened 
destruction to the 
ship and the crew. 
On every side as 
far as the eye could 
reach, a dreary 
view of chilling 
waves and of float- 
ing ice warned them of dangers, from which no 
earthly power could extricate them. The ship 
was far away from home, and in regions which 
had been seldom, if ever, seen by mortal eyes. 
The boldest were at times appalled by the dan- 
gers, both seen and unseen, which were clus- 
tering around them. 

Under these circumstances the spirit of re- 
volt broke out among that ship's crew. They 
resolved that they would no longer be in sub- 




THE VOYAGE. 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 141 

jection to their commander. They rose togeth- 
er in rebellion ; deprived him of his authority, 
and took the control of the ship into their own 
hands. They then placed their captain in an 
open boat, and throwing in to him a few arti- 
cles of provision, they turned him adrift upon 
that wide and cheerless ocean, and he never 
was heard of more. Appointing one of their 
number commander, they turned the ship in a 
different direction, and regulated all its move- 
ments by their own pleasure. After this re- 
volt, things went on in respect to the internal 
affairs of the ship, pretty much as before. The 
men had deprived their lavrful commander of 
his authority, and had elevated another to occu- 
py his place. A stranger would, perhaps, have 
perceived no material difference, after this 
change, in the conduct of the crew. The pres- 
ervation of their own lives rendered it neces- 
sary that the established rules of naval disci- 
pline should be observed. By night the watches 
were regularly set and relieved as before. The 
helmsman performed his accustomed duty, 
and the sails were spread to the winds, or furled 
in the tempest, as occasion required. But still 
they were all guilty of mutiny. They had re- 
fused to submit to their lawful commander. 
Consequently, by the laws of their country, 



142 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

they were all afterward, when taken, con- 
demned to be hung. The faithful discharge 
of the necessary duties of each day after their 
revolt, did not in the least free them from guilt. 
The crime of which they were guilty, and for 
which they deserved the severest punishment, 
was rebellion against the authority which was 
rightfully over them. 

Now, our situation, as sinners in this world, 
is very similar to that of this rebellious crew. 
The Bible tells us that we have said in our 
hearts that " we will not have God to reign 
over us." Instead of living in entire obedience 
to him, we have chosen to serve ourselves. 
The accusation which God has against us, is 
not that we occasionally transgress his laws, 
but that we refuse to regard him, at all times 
and under all circumstances, as our ruler. 
Sometimes children think that if they do not 
tell lies, and if they obey their parents, it is all 
that God requires of them. This, however, is 
by no means the case. God requires of us not 
only to do our duty to our parents, and to those 
around us, but also to love him with our most 
ardent affection, and to endeavor at all times to 
do that which will be pleasing to him. While 
the mutinous seamen had command of the ship, 
they might have been kind to one another ; 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 143 

they might have watched over the sick with 
unwearied care and attention. They might 
have conformed to the rules of naval discipline 
with the utmost fidelity, seeing that every rope 
was properly adjusted, and that cleanliness and 
order pervaded every department. But not- 
withstanding all this, the guilt of their rebellion 
and mutiny remained unchanged. They had 
refused obedience to their commander, and for 
this they were exposed to the penalty of that 
law which doomed them to death. 

It is the same with us. We may be kind to 
one another ; we may be free from guile ; we 
may be faithful in the discharge of the ordinary 
duties of life ; yet, if we are not in subjection to 
God, we are justly exposed to the penalty of his 
law. What would have been thought of one 
of those mutinous seamen, if, when brought be- 
fore the bar of his country, he had pleaded in 
his defense, that, after the revolt, he had been 
faithful to his new commander ? Would any 
person have regarded that as an extenuation 
of his sin ? No ! He would at once have been 
led to the scaffold. And the public voice would 
have said unanimously, that he suffered justly 
for his crime. 

Let us imagine that one of the mutineers in 



144 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

a court of justice, when on his trial, had urged 
the following excuses to the judge. 

Judge. — You have been accused of mutiny, 
and are found guilty ; and now what have you 
to say why sentence of death should not be 
pronounced against you ? 

Criminal. — It is true that I helped to place 
the captain in the boat and to send him adrift ; 
but then I was no worse than the others. I did 
only as the rest did. 

Judge. — The fact that others were equally 
guilty, is no excuse for you. You are to be 
judged by your own conduct. 

Criminal. — It is very unjust that I should be 
punished, for I was one of the most industrious 
and hard-working men on board the ship. No 
one can say that they ever saw me idle, or that 
I ever refused to perform any duty, however 
dangerous. 

Judge. — You are not on trial for idleness, but 
for refusing obedience to your commander. 

Criminal. — I was a very moral man. No 
one ever heard me use a profane word ; and 
in my conduct and actions, I was civil to all my 
shipmates. 

Judge. — You are not accused of profanity, 
or of impoliteness. The charge for which you 
are arraigned, is that you rebelled against the 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 145 

lawful authority. Of this you have been proved 
to be guilty ; and for this I must now proceed 
to pass the penalty of the law. 

Criminal. — But I was a very benevolent 
man. One night one of my shipmates was 
sick, and I watched all the night long at his 
hammock. And after we placed the captain 
in the boat, and pushed him away, I threw in a 
bag of biscuit, that he might have some food. 

Judge. — If your benevolence had shown 
itself in defending your commander, and in 
obedience to his authority, you might now be 
rewarded; but you are guilty of mutiny, and 
must be hung. 

Criminal. — There was no man on board the 
ship more useful than I was. And after we 
had turned the captain adrift, we must all have 
perished if it had not been for me, for no one 
else understood navigation. I have a good 
education, and did every thing I could to in- 
struct my shipmates, and to make them skillful 
seamen. 

Judge. — You are then the most guilty of the 
whole rebellious crew. You knew your duty 
better than the rest, and are more inexcusable 
in not being faithful. It appears by your own 
confession, that your education was good ; that 
your influence was extensive ; and that you 
K 



146 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

had been taught those duties which man owes 
his fellow-man. This does not extenuate, but 
increases your guilt. Many of your shipmates 
were ignorant, and were confirmed in their re- 
bellion by your example. They had never 
been taught those moral and social duties which 
had been impressed upon your mind. That 
you could have been so ungrateful, so treacher- 
ous, so cruel as to engage in this revolt, justly 
exposes you to the severest penalty of the law. 
I therefore proceed to pronounce upon you the 
sentence which your crimes deserve. You 
will be led from this place to the deepest and 
strongest dungeon of the prison ; there to be 
confined till you are led to the gallows, and 
there to be hung by the neck till you are dead ; 
and may God have mercy upon your soul. 

Now, who would not declare that such a 
sentence would be just ? And who does not 
see the absurdity of the excuses which the 
guilty man offered ? 

So it is with us all in respect to our rebellion 
against God. The charge which God brings 
against us, is, that we have refused to obey 
him. For this we deserve that penalty which 
God has threatened against rebellion. If we 
love our parents ever so ardently, it will not 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 147 

save us, unless we also love God. If we are 
ever so kind to those around us, it will not se- 
cure God's approbation, unless we are also 
obedient to him. If our conduct is so correct 
that no one can accuse us of what is called an 
immoral act, it will be of no avail, unless we 
are also living with faith in the promises of 
God, and with persevering efforts to do his 
will. And we shall be as foolish as was the 
guilty mutineer, if we expect that any such 
excuses will save us from the penalty of his 
law. 

We can not, by any fidelity in the discharge 
of the common duties of life, atone for the 
neglect to love and serve our Maker. We 
have broken away from his authority. We 
follow our own inclinations, and are obedient to 
the directions of others, rather than to those of 
our Maker. 

God expects the child in the morning to ac- 
knowledge his dependence upon his Maker, and 
to pray for assistance to do that which is right, 
during all the hours of the day. And he ex- 
pects you, when the evening comes, to thank 
him for all his goodness, and solemnly to prom- 
ise, all your days, to be obedient to his authority. 
You must not only love your parents, but you 
must also love your God. You must try to 



148 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

have your words and your thoughts pure, and 
all your conduct holy. Now, when you look 
back upon your past lives, and when you ex- 
amine your present feelings, do you not see that 
you have not obeyed God in all your ways ? 
Not only have you had wicked thoughts, and 
at times been disobedient to your parents, but 
you have not made it the great object of your 
life to serve your Maker. 

God now desires to have you obedient to 
him. He loves you, and wishes to see you 
happy. He has for this purpose sent his Son 
into the world to die for your sins, and to lead 
you to piety and peace. The Savior now asks 
you to repent of sin and love him, that, when 
you die, you may be received to heaven, and 
be happy forever. You perhaps remember the 
passage of Scripture found in Rev. iii. 2, " Be- 
hold, I stand at the door, and knock ; if any 
man hear my voice, and open the door, I will 
come in to him and sup with him, and he with 
me." By this the Savior expresses his desire 
that we should receive him to our hearts. 

One of the most affecting scenes described by 
the pen of one of the most eloquent of writers, 
is that of an aged father driven from his home 
by ungrateful and hard-hearted children. The 
broken-hearted man is represented as standing 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 14"9 

by the door of his own house, in a dark and 
tempestuous night, with his gray locks stream- 
ing in the wind, and his head exposed to the full 
fury of the storm. There he stands, drenched 
with the rain and shivering with the cold. But 
the door is barred, and the shutters are closed. 
His daughters hear the trembling voice of their 
aged parent, but refuse him admission. Their 
flinty hearts remain unmoved. The darkness 
increases ; the tempest rages ; the rain falls in 
torrents, and the wind howls most fearfully. 
The voice of their father grows feebler and 
feebler, as the storm spends its fury upon him. 
But nothing can touch the sympathies of his 
unnatural children. They will not open the 
door to him. At last, grief, and the pangs of 
disappointed hope, break the father's heart. He 
looks at the black and lowering clouds above 
him, and, in the phrensy of his distracted mind, 
invites the increasing fury of the storm. And 
still those wretched children refuse to receive 
him to their fireside, but leave him to wander in 
the darkness and the cold. 

The representation of this scene, as described 
by the pen of Shakspeare, has brought tears 
into many eyes. The tragedy of King Lear 
and his wretched daughters is known through- 
out the civilized world. What heart is not in- 



150 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

dignant at such treatment ? Who does not 
abhor the conduct of these unnatural children ? 

Our blessed Savior represents himself as 
taking a similar attitude before the hearts of his 
children. He has presented himself at the door 
of your heart, and can you refuse him admis- 
sion ? " Behold," says he, " I stand at the door 
and knock." But we, with a hardness of heart 
which has triumphed over greater blessings, 
and is consequently more inexcusable than that 
of the daughters of King Lear, refuse to love 
him, and to receive him as our friend. He en- 
treats admission. He asks to enter and be with 
you and you with him, that you may be happy. 
And there he has stood for days, and months, 
and years, and you receive him not. Could we 
see our own conduct in the light in which we 
behold the conduct of others, we should be con- 
founded with the sense of our guilt. 

Is there a child who reads this book, who has 
not at times felt the importance of loving the 
Savior ? When you felt these serious impres- 
sions, Christ was pleading for admission to your 
heart. You have, perhaps, been sick, and feared 
that you were about to die. And, oh, how 
ardently did you then wish that the Savior were 
your friend ! Perhaps you have seen a brother 
or a sister die : you wept over your companion, 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 151 

as her cheek daily grew more pale, and she drew 
nearer and nearer to death. And when she 
ceased to breathe, and her limbs were cold and 
lifeless, you wept as though your heart would 
break. 

And when you saw her placed in the coffin 
and carried to the grave, how earnestly did you 
desire to be prepared to die yourself! Oh, how 
did the world seem then to you! This was 
the way the Savior took to reach your heart. 
When on earth, he said, " Suffer little children 
to come unto me, and forbid them not." And 
now he endeavors, in many ways, to induce you 
to turn to him. Sometimes he makes you 
happy, that his goodness may excite your love. 
When he sees that in happiness you are most 
prone to forget him, he sends sorrow and trouble, 
under which your spirits sink, and this world 
appears gloomy, and you are led to look for- 
ward to a happier one to come. And does it 
not seem very ungrateful that you should resist 
all this kindness and care, and continue to re- 
fuse to submit yourself to him ? You think the 
daughters of King Lear were very cruel. In- 
deed they were ; but not so cruel as you. Their 
father had been kind to them, but not so kind 
as your Savior has been to you. He stood long 
at the door and knocked, but not so long as the 



152 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

Savior has stood at the door of your heart. It 
is in vain that we look to find an instance of 
ingratitude equal to that manifested by the sin- 
ner who rejects the Savior. And it is, indeed, 
melancholy to think, that any child can be so 
hard-hearted. 

It is strange that any person can resist the 
love which God has manifested for us. He 
has sent angels with messages of mercy, and 
invitations to his home in heaven. He sent his 
Son to die that we might be saved from ever- 
lasting sorrow. He has provided a world of 
beauty and of glory, far surpassing any thing 
we can conceive, to which he invites us, and 
where he will make us happy forever. And we 
are informed that all the angels in heaven are 
so much interested in our welfare, that " there 
is joy in the presence of the angels of God over 
one sinner that repenteth." It is indeed won- 
derful that the holy and happy angels above 
should feel so deep an interest in our concerns. 
But, oh, how surpassingly strange it is, that we 
feel so little for ourselves ! 

It is kind in God that he will not let the 
wicked enter heaven. He loves his holy chil- 
dren there too well, to allow the wicked to enter 
and trouble them, and destroy their peace. 
There was a little girl once, who had a party 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 153 

of her companions to spend the evening with 
her. They were all playing very happily in the 
parlor, when a drunken man happened to go 
by. As he heard their voices, he came stag- 
gering up to the door, and tried to get in. All 
the girls were very much frightened, for fear 
the degraded wretch would get into the parlor. 
But the gentleman of the house told them not 
to be frightened. He assured them that the 
man should not come in, and though it was a 
cold winter's night, he went out and drove him 
away. Now, was not this gentleman kind thus 
to protect these children ? 

Suppose a wicked man, or a lost spirit, should 
go to the gates of heaven and attempt to enter 
there. Do you suppose that God would let him 
in ? Would not God be as kind to the angels 
as an earthly father to his earthly children ? 
Every angel in heaven would cry to God for 
protection, if they should see the wicked ap- 
proaching that happy world. And God shows 
his love, by declaring that the wicked shall 
never enter there. 

" Those holy gates forever bar, 
Pollution, sin, and shame ; 
None shall obtain admittance there, 
But followers of the Lamb." 

It is not because God is unkind and cruel 



154 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

that he shuts up the wicked in the world of woe. 
He does this because he loves his children, and, 
like a kind father, determines to protect them 
from oppression and sorrow. Pure joy glows 
in the bosoms of the blest. Love unites them 
all, as they swell their songs, and take their 
flight. In their home, the wicked cease from 
troubling, and the weary are forever at rest. 

A few years since, there was a certain family 
which was united and happy. The father and 
mother looked upon the children who surround- 
ed their fireside, and beheld them all virtuous in 
their conduct, and affectionate toward one an- 
other. Their evening sports went on harmo- 
niously, and those children were preparing, in 
their beloved home, for future virtue and use- 
fulness. But, at last, one of the sons became 
dissipated. He went on from step to step in 
vice, till he became a degraded wretch. His 
father and mother wept over his sins, and did 
every thing in their power to reclaim him. All 
was in vain. Every day he grew worse. His 
brothers and sisters found all the happiness of 
their home destroyed by his wickedness. The 
family was disgraced by him, and they were all 
in sorrow and tears. 

One evening he was brought home so intox- 
icated that he was apparently lifeless. His poor 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 155 

broken-hearted mother saw him conveyed in 
this disgraceful condition to his bed. At anoth- 
er time, when his parents were absent, he came 
home, in the evening, in a state of intoxication 
bordering on phrensy. He raved about the 
house like a madman. He swore the most 
shocking oaths. Enraged with one of his sisters, 
he seized a chair, and would have struck her, 
perhaps, a fatal blow, if she had not escaped by 
flight. The parents of this child felt that such 
things could no longer be permitted, and told 
him that, if there was not an immediate refor- 
mation in his conduct, they should forbid him 
to enter their house. But entreaties and warn- 
ings were alike in vain. He continued his dis- 
graceful career. His father, perceiving that 
amendment was hopeless, and that the son, by 
remaining at home, was imbittering every mo- 
ment of the family, and loading them with dis- 
grace, sent his son to sea, and told him never 
to return till he could come back improved in 
character. To protect his remaining children, 
it was necessary for him to send the dissolute 
one away. 

Now, was this father cruel, in thus endeav- 
oring to promote the peace and the happiness 
of his family ? Was it unkind in him to resolve 
to make his virtuous children happy, by exclu- 



15G THE CHILD AT HOME. 



ding the vicious and the degraded ? No ! 
Every one sees that this is the dictate of pa- 
rental love. If he had been a cruel father — if 
he had had no regard for his children, he would 
have allowed this abandoned son to have re- 
mained, and conducted as he pleased. He would 
have made no effort to protect his children, and 
to promote their joy. 

And is it not kind of our heavenly Father to 
resolve that those who will not obey his laws 
shall be forever excluded from heaven ? He 
loves his virtuous and obedient children, and 
will make them perfectly happy. He never will 
permit the wicked to mar their joys and degrade 
their home. If God were an unkind being, he 
would let the wicked go to heaven. He would 
have no prison to detain them. He would leave 
the good unprotected and exposed to abuse from 
the bad. But God is love. He never thus will 
abandon his children. He has provided a strong 
prison, with dungeons deep and dark, where he 
will hold the wicked, so that they can not es- 
cape. The angels in heaven have nothing to 
fear from wicked men, or wicked angels. God 
will protect his children from all harm. 

Our Father in heaven is now inviting all of 
us to repent of our sins, and to cultivate a taste 
for the joys of heaven. He wishes to take us 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 157 

to his own happy home, and make us loved 
members of his own affectionate family. And 
every angel in heaven rejoices, when he sees 
the humblest child repent of sin and turn to God. 
But if we will not be obedient to his laws ; if 
we will not cultivate in our hearts those feelings 
of fervent love which glow and burn in the 
angel's bosom ; if we will not here on earth 
learn the language of prayer and praise, God 
assures us that we never can be admitted to 
mingle with his happy family above. 

The angels are happy to welcome a returning 
wanderer. But if they should see an unsub- 
dued spirit directing his flight toward heaven, 
they all would pray to God that he might not 
be permitted to enter, to throw discord into 
their songs, and sorrow into their hearts. God 
is love. He will keep heaven pure and happy. 
All who will be obedient to him, he will gladly 
elevate to walk the streets of the New Jerusa- 
lem, and to inhabit the mansions which he has 
built for them ; but the wicked he will forever 
exclude. 

Those who will not submit to his authority 
must be shut out forever. If we do not yield 
to the warnings and entreaties which now come 
to us from God, we must hear the sentence, 
"Depart from me." — " I know you not." God 



158 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

uses all the means which he deems proper to 
reclaim us ; and when he finds that we are in- 
corrigible, then does he close upon us the doors 
of our prison, that we never may escape. 

If God did not regard the happiness of his 
children, he would break these laws ; he would 
destroy this prison ; he would turn all its guilty 
inmates loose upon the universe, to wander to 
and fro at their pleasure. But, blessed be God, 
he is lov& ; and the brightness and glory of heav- 
en never can be marred by the entrance of 
sin. In hell's dreary abyss, the wretched out- 
cast from heaven will find their secure and eter- 
nal abiding-place. And now do you wish to 
have your home with the virtuous and happy 
in heaven, or with the vicious and miserable in 
the world of woe ? Now is the time to decide. 
God, in this world, makes use of all those means 
which he thinks calculated to affect your feel- 
ings and to incline you to his service. You 
now hear of the love of Jesus, and feel the striv- 
ings of the Holy Spirit. You are surrounded 
by many who love the Savior, and enjoy all the 
precious privileges of the Bible and the Sab- 
bath. God speaks to you in afflictions and en- 
joyments, and trys ways without number to re- 
claim you to himself. If you can resist all this, 
your case is hopeless. In the world of woe 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 159 

there will be no one to plead with you the won- 
ders of a Savior's love. You will feel no striv- 
ings of the Spirit. No Christian friends will 
surround you with their sympathies and their 
prayers. The Sabbath will no longer dawn upon 
you, and the Bible will no longer entreat you to 
turn to the Lord. If you can resist all the mo- 
tives to repentance which this life affords, you 
are proof against all the means which God sees 
fit to adopt. If you die impenitent, you will 
forever remain impenitent, and go on unre- 
strained in passion and woe. 

The word of God has declared that, at the 
day of judgment our doom will be fixed forever. 
The wicked shall then go into everlasting pun- 
'.shment, and the righteous to life eternal. The 
bars of the sinner's prison will never be broken. 
The glories of the saints' abode will never be 
sullied. 

A few years since, a child was lost in the 
woods. He was out with his brothers and sis- 
ters gathering berries, and accidentally was 
separated from them and lost. The children, 
after looking in vain for some time in search 
of the little wanderer, returned just in the dusk 
of the evening, to inform their parents that their 
brother was lost, and could not be found. The 
woods at that time were infested with bears. 



160 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



The darkness of a cloudy night was rapidly 
coming on, and the alarmed father, gathering a 
few of his neighbors, hastened in search of the 
lost child. 

The mother remained at home, almost dis- 
tracted with anxiety and terror. As the clouds 
gathered and the darkness increased, the father 

and the neighbors, 
with highly-excited 
fears, traversed the 
woods in all direc- 
tions, and raised 
loud shouts to at- 
tract the attention 
of the child. But 
their search was in 
vain. They could 
find no traces of 
the wanderer ; and 
as they stood under 
the boughs of the 
lofty trees, and listened, that if possible they 
might hear his feeble voice, no sound was borne 
to their ears but the melancholy moaning of the 
wind as it swept through the thick branches of 
the forest. 

The gathering clouds threatened an approach- 
ing storm, and the deep darkness of the night 




THE LOST CHILD. 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 161 

had already enveloped them. It is difficult to 
conceive what were the feelings of that father. 
And who could imagine how deep the agony 
which filled the bosom of that mother as she 
heard the wind, and beheld the darkness in 
which her child was wandering ! 

The search continued in vain till nine 
o'clock in the evening. Then one of the party 
was sent back to the village to collect the in- 
habitants for a more extensive search. The 
bell rung the alarm, and the cry of fire re- 
sounded through the streets. It was, however, 
ascertained that it was not fire which caused 
the alarm, but that the bell tolled the more sol- 
emn tidings of a lost child. Every heart sym- 
pathized in the sorrows of the distracted pa- 
rents. Soon great multitudes of people were 
seen ascending the hill upon the declivity of 
which the village was situated, to aid in the 
search. Ere long the rain began to fall, but no 
tidings came back to the village of the lost 
child. Hardly an eye was that night closed in 
sleep, and there was not a mother who did not 
feel for the agonized parents. The night 
passed away, and the morning dawned, and yet 
no tidings came. At last those engaged in the 
search met together and held a consultation. 
They made arrangements for a more minute 



162 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

and extended search, and agreed that in case 
the child was found, a gun should be fired to 
give a signal to the rest of the party. As the 
sun arose, the clouds were dispelled, and the 
whole landscape glittered in the rays of the 
bright morning. But that village was deserted 
and still. The stores were closed, and business 
was hushed. Mothers were walking the streets 
with sympathizing countenances and anxious 
hearts. There was but one thought there — 
What has become of the lost child ? All the 
affections and interest of the community were 
flowing in one deep and broad channel toward 
the little wanderer. 

In the meantime the people continued their 
search in the forest. They explored every 
thicket ; they examined every chasm among 
the rocks ; they shouted, they listened, but all 
was in vain. Thus the night was passed. 

About nine in the morning the signal-gun 
was fired, which announced that the child was 
found; and for a moment how dreadful was 
the suspense ! Was it found a mangled corpse, 
or was it alive and well ? Soon a joyful shout 
proclaimed the safety of the child. The shout 
was borne from tongue to tongue, till the whole 
forest rung again with the joyous acclamations 
of the multitude. A commissioned messenger 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 



163 




CHILD FOUND. 



rapidly bore the ti- 
dings to the dis- 
tracted mother. 
A procession was 
immediately form- 
ed by those engag- 
ed in the search. 
The child was 
placed upon a plat- 
form, hastily con- 
structed from the 
boughs of trees, 
and borne in tri- 
umph at the head 

of the procession. When they arrived at the 
brow of the hill, they rested for a moment, and 
proclaimed their success with three loud and 
animated cheers. The procession then moved 
on, till they arrived in front of the dwelling 
where the parents of the child resided. The 
mother, who stood at the door, with streaming 
eyes and throbbing heart, could no longer re- 
strain herself or her feelings. She rushed into 
the street, clasped her child to her bosom, and 
wept aloud. Every eye was suffused with 
tears, and for a moment all were silent. But 
suddenly some one gave a signal for a shout. 
One loud, and long, and happy note of joy rose 



164 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

from the assembled multitude, and they then 
dispersed to their business and their homes. 

This is a true story, and there was more joy 
over the one child that was found than over the 
ninety and nine that went not astray. Like- 
wise there is joy in the presence of the an- 
gels of God over one sinner that repenteth. 
But still this is a feeble representation of the 
love of our Father in heaven for us, and of the 
joy with which the angels welcome the return- 
ing wanderer. The mother can not feel for her 
child that is lost as God feels for the unhappy 
wanderers in the paths of sin. The child was 
exposed to a few hours of suffering ; the sinner 
to eternal despair. The child was in danger 
of being torn by the claws and the teeth of the 
bear — a pang which would have endured but 
for a moment ; but the sinner must feel the rav- 
ages of the never-dying worm, must be exposed 
to the fury of the inextinguishable flame. Oh, 
if a mother can feel so much, what must be the 
feelings of our Father in heaven ! If man can 
feel so deep a sympathy, what must be the 
emotions which glow in the bosoms of angels ! 

Many parables are introduced in the Bible to 
illustrate this feeling on the part of God. He 
compares himself with the kind shepherd, who, 
finding that one little lamb had strayed from 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 165 

the flock, left the ninety and nine and went in 
search of the lost one. He illustrates this feel- 
ing by that of the woman who had lost a piece 
of silver, and immediately lighted a candle and 
swept the house diligently, till she found it. In 
like manner, we are informed, that it is not the 
will of our Father who is in heaven, that one 
of his little ones should perish. He has mani- 
fested the most astonishing love and kindness 
that he might make us happy. 

But what greater proof of love can we have 
than that which God has shown to us in the 
gift of his Son ! That you might be saved 
from sin and ceaseless woe, Jesus came and died. 
He came to the world, and placed himself in 
poverty, and was overwhelmed with sorrow, 
that he might induce you to accept salvation, 
and to be happy forever in heaven. The 
Savior was born in a stable. When an infant, 
his life was sought. His parents were com- 
pelled to flee out of the country, that they might 
save him from a violent death. As he grew 
up, he was friendless and forsaken. He went 
about from town to town, and from village to 
village, doing good to all. He visited the sick, 
and healed them. He went to the poor and the 
afflicted, and comforted them. He took little 
children in his arms, and blessed them. He 



166 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

injured no one. and endeavored to do good lo 
all. And yet he was persecuted, and insulted, 
and abused. Again and again he was com- 
pelled to flee for his life. They took up stones 
to stone him. They hired false witnesses to 
accuse him. At last his enemies determined to 
kill him. 

They took him by night, as he was in a gar- 
den praying. A cruel multitude came and 
seized him by force, and carried him into a 
large hall. They then surrounded him, and 
heaped upon him all manner of insult and 
abuse. They mocked him. They collected 
some thorns, and made a crown, which they 
forced upon his head, pressing the sharp thorns 
into his flesh, till the blood flowed down upon 
his hair and his cheeks. And after thus pass- 
ing the whole night, he was led out to the hill 
of Calvary, tottering beneath the heavy burden 
of the cross, which he was compelled to bear 
upon his own shoulders, and to which he was to 
be nailed. When they arrived at the place of 
crucifixion, they drove the nails through his 
hands and his feet. The cross was then fixed 
in the ground, and the Savior, thus cruelly sus- 
pended, was exposed to the loud and contemp- 
tuous shouts of an insulting mob. The morn- 
ing air was filled with their loud execrations. 



RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 167 

A soldier came and thrust a spear deep into his 
side. To quench his burning thirst, they gave 
him vinegar, mixed with gall. 

Thus did our Savior die. He endured all 
his sufferings, from the cradle to the grave, that 
he might save sinners. And when, while en- 
during the agony of the cross, he cried out, " My 
God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ?" 
he was then suffering those sorrows which you 
must otherwise have suffered. If it had not 
been for our Savior's sorrows and death, there 
would have been no help for any sinner. You 
never could have entered heaven. You must 
forever have endured the penalty of that law 
which saith, " The soul that sinneth, it shall 
die." Was there ever such love as this ? And, 
oh, must not that child's heart be hard, who will 
not love such a Savior, and who will not do all 
in his power to prove his gratitude by a holy 
and an obedient life ? Christ so loves you, that 
he was willing to die the most cruel of deaths, 
that he might make you happy. He is now in 
heaven, preparing mansions of glory for all 
those who will accept him as their Savior, and 
obey his law. And where is the child who does 
not wish to have this Savior for his friend, and 
to have a home in heaven ? 

The Holy Spirit is promised to aid you in all 



168 THE CHILD AT H 

your efforts to resist sin. If, when the power 
of temptation is strong, you will look to him for 
aid, he will give you strength to resist. Thus 
is duty made easy. God loves you. Angels 
desire that you should come to heaven. Jesus 
has died to save you. The Holy Spirit is ready 
to aid you in every Christian effort, and to lead 
you on, victorious over sin. How unreasona- 
ble, then, and how ungrateful it is for any child, 
to refuse to love God. and to prepare to enter 
the angels' home ! There you can be happy. 
Xo night is there. Xo sickness or sorrow can 
ever reach you there. Glory will fill your eye. 
Joy will fill your heart. You will be an angel 
yourself, and shine in all the purity and in all 
the bliss of the angels' happy home. 



CHAPTER YIL 



THE SAVIOR. 



In the last chapter I endeavored to show in 
what our sin against God principally consists ; 
and also the interest which God feels in our 
happiness, and the sacrifice which he has made 
to lead us to penitence and to heaven. I shall 
consider in this chapter more particularly how 
God has opened the way of salvation for us 
through the Savior. 

Probably no child reads this book who is not 
conscious of sin. You feel not only that you 
do not love God as you ought, but that some- 
itimes you are ungrateful or disobedient to your 
parents ; sometimes you get irritated against 
your brother or your sister, or you indulge in 
other feelings, which you know to be wrong. 
Now, the first thing which God requires of you 
is, that you should be penitent for all your sins. 
At the close of the day, you go to your cham- 
ber for sleep. Perhaps your mother goes with 
you, and hears you repeat a prayer of gratitude 



170 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

to God for his kindness. But after she has left 
the chamber, and you are alone in the dark- 
ness, you recall to mind the events of the day, 
asking yourself what you have done that is 
wrong. Perhaps you were idle at school, or 
unkind to a playmate, or disobedient to your 
parents. Now, if you go to sleep without sin- 
cere repentance, and a firm resolution to try 
for the future to avoid such sin, the frown of 
God will be upon you during all the hours of 
the night. You ought, every evening before 
you go to sleep, to think of your conduct during 
the day, and to express to God your sincere 
sorrow for every thing' which you have done 
which is displeasing to him, and humbly implore 
the pardon of your sins through Jesus Christ. 
A child who does this God loves. Such a one 
he will readily forgive. 

But remember that it is not enough simply 
to say that you are penitent. You must really 
feel penitent. And you must resolve to be 
more watchful in future, and to guard against 
the sin over which you mourn. 

You have, for instance, spoken unkindly, 
during the day, to your brother. At night, you 
feel that you have done wrong, and that God 
is displeased. Now, if you are sincerely peni- 
tent, and ask God's forgiveness, you will pray 



THE SAVIOR. 171 



that you may not again be guilty of the same 
fault. And when you awake in the morning, 
you will be watchful over yourself, that you 
may be kind and obliging. You will perhaps 
go to your brother, and say, " I did wrong in 
speaking unkindly to you yesterday, and I am 
sorry for it. I will endeavor never again to do 
so." At any rate, if you are really penitent, 
you will pray to God for forgiveness, and most 
sincerely resolve never willingly to be guilty 
of the same sin again. 

But you must also remember that, by the law 
of God, sin can never pass unpunished. God 
has said, " The soul that sinneth, it shall die." 
And when you do any thing that is wrong, and 
afterward repent of it, God forgives you, be- 
cause the Savior has borne the suffering which 
you deserve. This is what is meant by that 
passage of Scripture, " He was wounded for 
our transgressions, and bruised for our iniqui- 
ties." Our Father in heaven loved us so much 
that he gave his own Son to die in our stead. 
And now he says that he is ready to forgive, if 
we will repent, and believe in his Son who has 
suffered and died to save us. And ought we 
not to love so kind a Savior ? 

You can not expect at present precisely and 
fully to understand every thing connected with 



172 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

the sufferings and death of Christ, and the moral 
effect which they produce. In fact, it is inti- 
mated in the Bible, that even the angels in 
heaven find this subject one capable of tasking 
all their powers. You can understand, how- 
ever, that Christ suffered and died in order that 
you might be forgiven. It would not be safe in 
any government to forgive sin merely on the 
penitence of the sinner. Civil government can 
not do this safely ; a family government can 
not do it safely. It is often the case, when a 
man is condemned to death for a crime that he 
has committed, that his dearest friends, some- 
times his wife and children, make the most af- 
fecting appeals to the chief magistrate of the 
state, to grant him pardon. But it will not do. 
The governor, if he knows his duty, will be 
firm, however painful it may be, in allowing 
the law to take its course : for he has to con- 
sider not merely the wishes of the unhappy 
criminal and his friends, but the safety and 
happiness of the whole community. 

And so the governor of the universe must 
consider, not merely his own benevolent feel- 
ings toward the sinner, but the safety and the 
holiness of all his creatures : and he could not 
have forgiven our sins, unless he had planned a 
way by which we might safely be forgiven. 



THE SAVIOR. 173 



This way he did devise, to sustain law and pro- 
tect holiness, and yet to let us go free from the 
punishment due to our sins. Jesus died for us. 
He bore our sins. By his stripes we are healed. 
And shall we not be grateful ? 

It is thus that God has provided a way 
for our escape from the penalty of his law. 
You have read, " God so loved the world, 
that he gave his only begotten Son, that who- 
soever believeth in him should not perish, but 
have everlasting life." Was it not kind in God 
to give his Son to suffer, that we might be saved 
from punishment ? God has plainly given his 
law. And he has said, the soul that sinneth, it 
shall die. And he has said, that his word is so 
sacred, that, though heaven and earth should 
pass away, his word shall not pass away. We 
have all broken God's law, and deserve the pun- 
ishment which it threatens. But our indulgent 
Father in heaven is looking upon us in loving- 
kindness and in tender mercy. He pities us, 
and he has given his own Son to bear the pun- 
ishment which we deserve. Oh, was there ever 
proof of greater love ? 

And how ardently should we love that Sa- 
vior, who is nearer and dearer than a brother, 
who has left heaven and all its joys, and come 
to the world, and suffered and died, that we 



174 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



might be happy ! God expects that we shah 
love him ; that we shall receive him as our 
Savior, and whenever we do wrong, that we 
shall ask forgiveness for his sake. And when a 
child thinks of the sorrows which his sins have 
caused the Savior, it appears to me that he must 
love that Savior with the most ardent affection. 
It was the law of a certain town that the 
boys should not slide down hill in the streets.* 

If any were found 



doing so, they were 
to be fined, and if 
the money was not 
paid, they were to 
jj| be sent to jail. Now 
a certain boy, the 
son of a poor man, 
broke the law, and 
was taken up by an 
officer. They car- 
ried him into court, 
the fact was fully 
proved against him, 

* To those children who live where it seldom or never 
snows, I ought to say in this note, that, in New England, it is 
a very common amusement to slide down the hills on sleds or 
boards, in the winter evenings, when the roads are icy and 
smooth. In some places this is dangerous to passengers, and 
then it is forbidden by law. 




COASTTNG. 



THE SAVIOR. 175 



and he was sentenced to pay the fine. He had 
no money, and his father, who stood by, was 
poor, and found it hard work to supply the 
wants of the family. The money must be paid, 
however, or the poor boy must go to jail. The 
father thought that he could earn it in the eve- 
nings, and he promised, accordingly, to pay the 
money if they would let his son go free. 

Evening after evening, then, he went out to 
his work, while the boy was allowed to remain 
by the comfortable fire, at home. After a while 
the money was earned and paid, and then the 
boy felt relieved and safe again. 

Now, suppose that this boy, instead of being 
grateful to the father, who had thus suffered and 
toiled for him, should treat him with coldness 
and unkindness. Suppose that he should con- 
tinually do things to give him pain, and always 
be reluctant to do the slightest thing to oblige 
him. Who would not despise so ungrateful a 
boy? 

And do you think that that child who will 
grieve the Savior with continued sin, who will 
not love him, who will not try to obey him, can 
have one spark of noble, of generous feeling in 
his bosom ? Would any person, of real mag- 
nanimity, disregard a friend who had done so 
much as the Savior has done for us ? God re- 



176 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

quires of us, that while we feel penitent for our 
sins, we should feel grateful to that Savior who 
has redeemed us by his blood. And when 
Jesus Christ says, " Come unto me, all ye that 
labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you 
rest," this is what he means. We must love 
Christ. We must regard him as the friend who 
has, by his own sufferings, saved us from the 
penalty of God's law. And it is dishonorable 
and base for us to refuse to love him, or for us 
to do any thing which will displease him. 

This kind Savior is now looking upon you with 
affection. He has gone to heaven to prepare a 
place for you, and there he wishes to receive 
you, and to make you happy forever. His eye 
is upon your heart every day, and every hour. 
He never forgets you. Wherever you go, he 
follows you. He shields you from harm. He 
supplies all your wants. He surrounds you 
with blessings. And now, all that he asks for 
all these favors is your love; not that you may 
do good to him, but that he may do still more 
good to you. He wishes to take you, holy and 
happy, to the green pastures and the still waters 
of heaven. 

Can any child refuse to love this Savior ? 
Oh, go to him at once, and pray that he will re- 
ceive you, and write your name among the 



THE SAVIOR. 177 



number of his friends. Then will he soon re- 
ceive you to his own blissful abode. 

Fair distant land ! could mortal eyes 

But half its charms explore, 
How would our spirits long to rise, 

And dwell on earth no more ! 

No cloud those distant regions know, 

Realms ever bright and fair ! 
For sin, the source of mortal woe, 

Can never enter there." 

It is not only thus a source of safety for us 
in another world, to be the friend of the Savior, 
but it is an unspeakable means of comfort and 
enjoyment in this. It will be a great happiness 
to you in all the early years of life to be devoted 
to your Savior while you are young. 

Besides nothing can be more irrational and 
dangerous than the disposition, which so many 
young persons have, to neglect attention to re- 
ligion, thinking that there will be time enough, 
when they are older, to secure God's favor. But 
how unwise is this, when you know not that 
you will live another week ! There is no one 
who will read this page who can not repeat the 
names of many children younger than them- 
selves, who have died. How 7 many diseases 
are there continually seizing the young, and 

M 



178 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

hurrying them to the grave ! Whatever may- 
be the age of any one who reads these pages, 
while you are reading them, there are many 
hundreds of persons of your age lying on a 
dying bed. Are you a girl of eleven years of 
age ? Go with me to this chamber, where a 
little girl is dying. It is not an imaginary scene : 
it is reality. 

The curtains are drawn, that the dazzling 
light of the sun may not pain the little patient's 
fading eye. She will never see the sun, nor 
the green fields, nor the white snow-clad earth 
again. It is with difficulty that she breathes ; 
and her father has taken her from her bed, and 
holds her wasted form, wrapped in a blanket, 
in his lap by the fire. Her little brother and 
sister are whispering, and walking softly about 
the room, frightened to see her look so pale and 
thin. Her mother is dropping some medicine 
from a phial, and tries to conceal her face ; for 
she is weeping. The physician is there, and 
says, 

" Julia, my dear," — for that is the name of 
the little girl, — " I ought to tell you the truth ; 
but I am sorry to say, that I think it impossible 
that you should get well again. I fear that you 
can live but a day or two longer." 

Julia is a Christian, a happy Christian ajad 



THE SAVIOR. 179 



she looks up in her father's face, and smiling 
faintly, says, 

" Pray for me ; pray that the Savior may 
come now. I want to kiss you all, for I am 
going to die." 

Her pastor is also in the room, and inquires, 

" Are you willing to die, Julia ?" 

" O yes !" she replies, with a mild and cheer- 
ful voice. 

All in the room are so affected that with diffi- 
culty they restrain their tears. 

" Do not cry," says Julia ; " why will you ? 
I feel so happy that I can not cry." 

And now hear her soft, sweet voice, mingling 
with her father's as she sings, 

■ Fare you well ! I must be gone ; 

I have no home nor stay with you ; 
I take my staff, and travel on, 

Till I a better world can view, 
I'll march to Canaan's land ; 

I'll land on Canaan's shore, 
Where pleasures never end, 

And troubles come no more. 
Fare you well, fare you well, fare you well, 
My loving friends, farewell." 

And then see Julia die, as peacefully and as 
happily as though she were going to sleep. 
She has loved the Savior while a child : she 



180 THE CHILD AT HOME, 

has prepared for death by penitence and prayer ; 
and when the hour for her to die comes, even 
in her childhood, she looks forward with delight 
to a home in heaven. 

Now this is not an imaginary scene. It is 
one which I myself witnessed but a few years 
since. Such scenes are now frequently occur- 
ring. And will you, my young reader, think, 
that because you are young, it is not necessary 
for you to attend to religion ? 

More young persons die than aged persons ; 
more boys and girls than men and women; 
and consequently nothing can be more impor- 
tant than that you should immediately make 
your peace with God. Then you will be pre- 
pared to die at any time, as happily as Julia 
died. And if sudden disease throws you into 
delirium, and you die without knowing that 
you are dangerously sick, as is most frequently 
the case with children, you will wake up in 
heaven, finding angels smiling around you, call- 
ing you their dear and new-born sister; and 
all the joy and the beauty of that blessed world 
will be yours forever. When one thinks of 
that happy world, of the love of God, of the 
smiles of the Savior, of the welcome of the 
angels, of all the happiness with which God has 
filled it, — happiness to which there can be no 



THE SAVIOR. 181 



end, one can not help congratulating a child 
who goes, like Julia, early to her home. 

But if, on the other hand, you neglect re- 
ligion, and are suddenly taken sick, and sud- 
denly die, what will become of you? The 
thought is too painful, too awful to dwell upon. 
Exclusion from heaven; banishment from the 
presence of God, with none to love you ; sur- 
rounded by all the wicked of this world, and by 
fallen spirits, — the Bible assures you that you 
will pass ages which know no end in weeping 
and wailing, in lamentation and despair. Is it 
not, then, of the utmost importance, that you 
should immediately seek to make the Savior 
your friend ? Can any thing be more worthy 
of your earnest, and persevering, and immedi- 
ate prayers ? 

There is another reason why you should 
without any delay consecrate your heart and 
life to God. It is because you can not be re- 
ally happy in this world till you do this. There 
is nothing which promotes our earthly happiness 
so much as sincere piety. The principal cause 
of our unhappiness in this world is to be found 
in our own characters, in our unrestrained pas- 
sions, in our ungoverned tempers, in those feel- 
ings of ambition, vanity, and pride, which we 
have long cherished, and consequently find it 



182 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

very difficult to subdue. Now Jesus, if we 
make him our friend, will help us gain the vic- 
tory over these sins ; and the sooner we com- 
mence this work, the less we have to struggle 
against, and the easier it is. And when, by 
the grace of God, all these wrong feelings are 
subdued, we have a tranquil state of heart, 
which is the purest enjoyment we can experi- 
ence in this life. 

An observing person can generally discover 
a sincerely pious child by the peaceful and joy- 
ful countenance she has. She is so much in 
the habit of loving God, and all her acquaint- 
ances, of being kind, and of making others happy, 
that the features of her countenance become 
molded into the expression of the most benig- 
nant and amiable feelings. 

A very distinguished man once wrote to his 
young daughter that it was in her power to 
make herself beautiful. He said that, by culti- 
vating a kind, and pleasant, and cheerful spirit, 
at all times, by doing all in her power to pro- 
mote the happiness of those around her, her 
features would unavoidably assume that aspect 
of cheerfulness and of inward enjoyment, that 
expression of an amiable and affectionate dis- 
position, which constitutes by far the most de- 
sirable kind Of beauty ; and it is indeed so. 



THE SAVIOR. 183 



There is no countenance so pleasant to look 
upon, so desirable to possess, as that which is 
animated by the expression of a warm and gen- 
erous heart. This excites interest in every be- 
holder, is the best letter of introduction to 
strangers one can possess, and almost infallibly 
secures the kindness of all one meets. 

But this is a digression. I was speaking of 
the importance of being early prepared to die. 
Consider how much is put at hazard by delay. 
Have you ever thought what is meant by im- 
mortality ? You have often heard that you 
are immortal ; that, after the body dies, the soul 
will live forever. Go in imagination beyond 
the moon, and sun, and the distant stars, which 
twinkle in the deep, blue heavens ; enter that 
heavenly world of indescribable glory, where 
angels dwell, where the golden city shines, and 
the still waters flow through the green pastures 
of God's peculiar abode ; the^e the Christian 
soul will live and rejoice forever. Can your 
mind grasp the thought ? Time without any 
end ! Ages upon ages will glide away, and 
you will never be sick, never be sorrowful, 
never die. If you will really reflect upon this 
idea, make your mind familiar with it, you can 
hardly refrain from making it your constant 
endeavor and prayer, that you may be prepared 



184 THE CHILD AT HChME. 

to enter that celestial world. As life is short at 
the longest — as it is always uncertain — nothing 
can be more important than immediate prepara- 
tion for death, that we may thus at any moment 
safely enter upon our immortal state. 

And then, again, it is much more easy to be- 
come a Christian, while you are young, than 
when you have grown older. You have fewer 
gay and thoughtless associates to tempt you 
to continue in sin ; then your habits are not 
fixed, and they are more easily changed ; your 
feelings are more tender, and more susceptible 
of gratitude for all a Savior's kindness and love. 
How often do you now, as you hear of heaven 
and its rapturous, never-ending joys, feel the 
glow of intense desire to be welcomed to that 
celestial world ! And when you hear how the 
Savior has loved you, and that he has died to 
redeem you, at times you can hardly refrain 
from weeping as you think of his goodness. 
If you harden your heart now, and live without 
prayer and without loving and obeying God, 
soon all these feelings will disappear ; you will 
become thoughtless and cold-hearted, and prob- 
ably ere long you will lie down to die, exclaim- 
ing, with the bitterest lamentations, " The har- 
vest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not 
saved ' 



THE SAVIOR. 185 



Yes, young reader ! If you ever intend to 
become a Christian, now is the time ; it is in 
the day of your youth that you are most ear- 
nestly called upon to give your affections to 
your Creator. The Savior, who, when on 
earth, said, " Suffer little children to come unto 
me, and forbid them not," is now ready to re- 
ceive you to his arms, and fold you to his bosom ; 
all the angels in heaven will welcome you to 
their love ; and when they see that you have 
chosen God as your father and your friend, and 
that you have resolved to do every thing in 
your power to please him, they will all look 
down upon you, and love you, as their young 
earthly brother or sister, and they will fly to 
meet you with smiling faces, and welcoming 
songs, and affectionate hearts, whenever God 
takes you home ; and your Heavenly Father, 
who is now saying to you, "My son or my 
daughter, give me thy heart," will then joyfully 
say, " My child was dead, but is alive again, 
was lost, but now is found." 

But suppose you go on in life, as many chil- 
dren do, thinking but little of God and of the 
Savior ; as you grow older, you become more 
hardened in sin : yielding to the temptations 
of gayety, giddiness, and thoughtlessness, you 
soon have but little desire to please God, and 



186 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

but little fear of displeasing him ; your inward 
sins of vanity, ambition, irritability, and selfish- 
ness, unsubdued, and indeed hardly checked, 
grow daily stronger and more unyielding • the 
Savior mourns over you as an ungrateful child 
whom he can not love, and whom he never can 
receive to the happy mansions he has gone to 
prepare for those that obey him. 

The thought will often occur to your mind, 
and will overwhelm you with anxiety and un- 
happiness, that you are living in sin, and that 
you must be forever excluded from heaven. 
Days of sickness will come, and in your cham- 
ber of loneliness, and silence, and pain, you will 
reflect upon the past with sorrow, and look for- 
ward to the future with dread ; hours of depres- 
sion will come, when your earthly prospects 
will seem clouded, every thing of a transient 
nature unsatisfying and worthless, and yet you 
will have no solid consolations of religion to 
cheer your spirit in its despondency ; and finally 
there will come the hour of death. 

Think how it will be with you in that hour. 
You lie in your chamber at midnight, in the 
full possession of all your powers, and feel that 
you are dying. Weeping friends stand silent 
at your bedside, watching each breath, expect- 
ing every moment you will breathe your last ; 



THE SAVIOR. 187 



your mind retraces the months and the years 
of your past life, and dwells upon all its sinful- 
ness. " O, how uselessly have I lived !" you 
exclaim in anguish of spirit ; " how neglectful 
of God and of my own soul ! and now I am 
dying, and the sentence of condemnation is 
already pronounced — 'Cast ye the unprofitable 
servant into outer darkness.' O that I had 
heeded the warnings of conscience and of 
God's word ; but I have grieved away the 
Spirit, and now I am going through the dark 
valley, of the shadow of death, alone and com- 
fortless. O that I had never been born." 

The window-curtain at your bedside is 
drawn, and with languid eye you look out into 
the deep and cloudless heavens. The moon is 
there bright and undimmed, as she moves along 
in her magnificent pathway ; and far, far be- 
yond, in the depths of immensity, the glimmer- 
ing stars send their feeble rays into your dying 
chamber. " Before another hour is gone," you 
say to yourself, " my soul will have passed be- 
yond, far beyond those distant worlds, to hear 
its doom at the throne of God, to receive its 
condemnation for a misspent life. How raptur- 
ous would be this moment, if I were only dying 
the death of the righteous ! Angels would then 
accompany me in my blissful flight beyond the 



188 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

pathway of those rolling worlds, and long be- 
fore the morning sun shines upon my friends 
here on earth, I should be rejoicing with angels 
and archangels in the never-ending morning of 
a glorious eternity. But now how dreadful a 
doom awaits me ! How justly am I con- 
demned !" A few more moments pass away in 
anguish of spirit, and the struggle is over ; your 
lifeless body remains on earth, to return to the 
dust from whence it was made, and your spirit 
returns to receive its final doom from God, who 
gave it. 

Now, do not think that all this is merely a 
fancy sketch. The time is very near when you 
will die ; the years which seem now so long to 
you, are swiftly passing, and will soon be for- 
ever gone. And when you die, of what value 
will all things else be, compared with piety ? 
This is the " one thing needful," which we are 
first to seek, and to attain which we must be 
willing to sacrifice every thing else. 

God is our Father ; we are indebted to him 
for every blessing we receive. It is our conse- 
quent duty to love him, with the whole heart, 
and soul, and mind, and strength, and to do all 
that we can to please him. Instead of this, we 
have all neglected God, and been very ungrate- 
ful for his kindness. God has declared that sin 



THE SAVIOB. 189 



shall not pass unpunished ; we must, therefore, 
be punished by banishment from heaven for 
our sins, unless God can devise some way by 
which he can save us, and yet keep his word : 
such a way God has devised. " God so loved 
the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, 
that whosoever believeth in him should not 
perish, but have everlasting life." Jesus Christ, 
the Son of God, came " to seek and to save the 
lost :" ' he was wounded for our transgressions ? 
and bruised for our iniquities," and has borne 
our sins in his body on the tree ;" " he hath re- 
deemed us to God by his blood," and now the 
way is made plain for our salvation. If we re- 
pent of sin, trust in this Savior, and make it our 
great endeavor, hereafter, to abstain from sin, 
and to please God in all we say, and think, and 
do, God will forgive us for Christ's sake. This 
is the gospel plan of salvation ; this is the mean- 
ing of the passage — " Other foundation can no 
man lay than is laid, which is Jesus Christ." 

Do you ask what is meant by forgiving us 
for Jesus Christ's sake ? Perhaps, in addition 
to what has already been said, I can explain the 
subject still further by the following illustration : 

A lady once sent her daughter Sarah to a 
boarding-school at some distance from home, 
where she would be almost entirely among 



190 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



strangers. In the town to which Sarah was 
going, there was a lady residing, who had for 
many years been an ardent friend of her 
mother : they had loved each other from child- 
hood. Sarah's mother wrote the following let- 
ter to this lady, and gave it to Sarah to hand 
her when she should arrive at that town : — 




" My Dear Friend, 

" This letter will introduce to you my little 
daughter Sarah. She is to pass a few months 



THE SAVIOR. 191 



attending school in your neighborhood. I feel 
much solicitude respecting her, for she is quite 
young to go so far from home. I know that 
you will, my dear friend, for my sake, feel in- 
terested in the welfare of my darling daughter. 
Any kindness you can show her, I shall con- 
sider an additional evidence of your love for 
me. 

As soon as the lady read this letter, she took 
Sarah in her arms, and kissed her, saying, " My 
dear child, I love your mother so much, that 
for her sake I must love you ;" and during all 
the time that Sarah remained in the place, she 
treated her with the utmost kindness and atten- 
tion. There were many other children in that 
school, as far from home as Sarah was, and 
many, perhaps, in mind and manners more in- 
teresting than Sarah was ; but Sarah's mother 
was the very dear friend of this lady, and for 
her mother s sake she did all she could to pro- 
mote her happiness. Sarah must therefore 
have felt, that it was not in consequence of 
any merits of her own, that she was treated 
with such favor, but in consequence of her 
mother s merits. 

Now, this is the way in which God's favor is 
secured for the repenting sinner. We have all 



1D2 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

sinned against God, and incurred his displeas- 
ure. We have no merits of our own. Christ, 
the beloved Son of God, has come to this world, 
and, by many years of sorrow and of suffering, 
and finally by dying on the cross, has made 
atonement for our sins. God was so unwilling 
to see us, unworthy as we are, perish in our 
sins, that he provided for us this Savior. " God 
so loved the world that he gave his only-begot- 
ten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should 
not perish, but have everlasting life/' And 
now, if we repent of all our sins, and pray that 
God will, for Christ's sake, forgive us, we are 
assured that our sins shall all be forgiven. We 
are forgiven for Christ's sake. God receives us 
to heaven not in consequence of our own 
merits, but in consequence of the merits of 
Christ. It is thus, as the Bible expresses it, 
that God " magnifies his law, and makes it 
honorable," and yet saves those who have 
broken it. 

This is the plan which God, in infinite wis- 
dom and love, has adopted for the salvation of 
a lost world. He saw this plan to be the best 
that could be adopted, and the fact is mentioned 
in the Bible as one of the most extraordinary 
that has ever occurred in the whole govern- 
ment of God, that he should have manifested so 



THE SAVIOR. 



193 



much affection for rebels against him, as to 
have secured their salvation at such a sacrifice. 

It is this story of redeeming love, which is the 
great power of God unto salvation. This it is 
that Paul meant, when he said, " I am deter- 
mined to know nothing among you save Jesus 
Christ and him crucified." It is this story of 
God's love in giving his Son to suffer, and to 
die for us, which, more than all things else, 
softens the stubborn heart, and brings us back 
in contrition and gratitude to God. The poor 
Green lander, wrap- 
ped in furs, and 
shivering with cold 
in his ice hut, as 
he has heard this af- 
fecting story from 
the lips of mission- 
aries has felt all 
the fountains of 
contrition and grat- 
itude moving with- 
in him, and with an 
overflowing heart 
has cried out, "O 
God be merciful to me a sinner." 

This it is which has led Tahiti and Hawai to 
throw away their idols, and which has adorned 

N 




THE GBEENLANDER. 



194 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

those tropical islands with Christian villages 
and praying families ; and even the wild Indian 
hunter, in the gloomy ravines of the Rocky 
Mountains, turns aside from the pursuit of the 
buffalo and the bear, to listen to this wonderful 
story of a Savior's love ; and, as he listens, he 
weeps, and his heart melts, and he becomes a 
man of peace and prayer. He gives up his 
wandering life, and settles in a humble home, 
cultivating his garden and his field : he leads 
his little children to school, and commends them 
in morning and evening prayer to God. It is 
the doctrine of the cross of Christ — Christ and 
him crucified, — w T hich is now fast sending piety 
and peace unto all the habitations of cruelty. 

And can you, my young reader, harden your 
heart against this affecting story ? When God, 
your heavenly Father, has so loved you, that 
he gave his Son to die to redeem you, can you 
withhold your heart from him ? When Jesus 
Christ left the glory that he had with the Father 
before the world was, the joys of heaven, and 
the adoration of angels, and came to this world 
to suffer and to die the cruel death of the cross, 
that he might atone for your sins and prepare 
the way for your entrance into heaven, can you 
be ungrateful to him ? The daughters of the 
poor heathen are turning to him. The children 



THE SAVIOR. 195 



born in the forest, wild as the wolf or the bear, 
are becoming the gentle disciples of the Savior, 
colored girls of India, and of Africa, who have 
never heard a father's prayers, and have never 
been taught by a pious mother to love the Lord, 
have heard from the missionaries what God has 
done to save them ; and they are giving their 
hearts to the Savior. And can you be willing 
to remain ungrateful to this Savior, to whom 
the heathen children of Asia, and Africa, and 
the islands of the sea, are giving their hearts 
and devoting their lives ? 

When the day of judgment comes, you will 
see many of them on the right hand of God, in 
peace and happiness. The Savior will look 
upon them with love ; the angels of God will 
gather around them, and welcome them to 
heaven. The golden gates of the celestial city 
will be thrown open, and, as the Savior says to 
them, " Come, ye blessed of my Father," they 
will enter that happy world with songs and 
everlasting joy upon their heads. And can you 
be willing to be found in the left-hand throng ; 
to have the Savior frown upon you as having 
rejected his love ; to have all the good angels 
avoid you, as an ungrateful sinner against their 
Father, and then to hear the awful doom — " De- 



196 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

part, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared 
for the devil and his angels ?" 

And should this be your final doom, as you 
depart into the gloom of the world of woe, 
how bitterly will you reflect upon your mis- 
spent life ! " I have had the Bible,'' you would 
say, " and the Sabbath, and Christian books ; I 
have been taught to pray, and have been en- 
treated by pious friends, and Sabbath-school 
teachers, and faithful preachers of the gospel, to 
obey the Savior, and prepare for the day of 
judgment ; but I neglected all their entreaties ; 
and now I am lost forever." 

As I write these lines, feeling deeply their 
truth, as I look forward to the day of judgment, 
and think that your condition and feelings may 
be, then, such as I have now described, I know 
not how, with sufficient earnestness, to entreat 
you to make immediate preparation to meet your 
God. It was in view of this anguish of your 
spirit — anguish which in the world of woe can 
never cease — that our blessed Savior's sympa- 
thies were so deeply moved that he not only was 
willing to send his Spirit to strive with you, 
but even left himself the joys of heaven, and 
suffered and died, that he might save your soul. 
Think not, then, that any importunity can be 
too earnest ; think not that any one can feel 



THE SAVIOR. 197 



too deeply upon this all-important subject. 
Compared with the salvation of the soul, every 
thing else dwindles into insignificance. 

And God has promised you, if you will sin- 
cerely ask it, the assistance of his Holy Spirit 
to enable you to triumph over all your sins. In 
temptation, the Spirit, if sought for, will come 
to your aid. In the hour of weakness, the Holy 
Spirit will make you strong. When in doubt 
and perplexity respecting duty, wisdom from on 
high will be given in answer to your prayers, to 
make the path of duty plain. 

And now, are you not ready and willing to 
consecrate your heart to the Savior ? Can you 
not deliberately, prayerfully, and forever make 
the surrender of your heart to him, resolving, 
every day, as long as you live, to abstain from 
every thing you think to be wrong, and to do 
every thing your conscience tells you to be 
right ? If so, enter solemnly into the following 
covenant, after having offered sincerely and fer- 
vently the prayer : 

" O Lord God, my Heavenly Father ! Thou 
hast made me, and I am indebted to thee for 
every blessing of my life. I ought always to 
have loved thee, and to have obeyed thee. But, 
instead of this, I have been very ungrateful for 



198 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

all thy goodness, and have often done that 
which I knew to be wrong. I have no claim 
upon thy mercy ; but thou hast been so kind, 
notwithstanding my ingratitude and sin, as to 
give thy Son to die to save me. And I now, 
relying upon the merits of Jesus Christ my Sa- 
vior, pray that thou wilt, for his sake, forgive 
my sins. I will endeavor, O God, with thy as- 
sistance, hereafter to live a holy life. Wilt thou 
now enable me to make the entire consecration 
of my heart to thee, and ever to keep the cove- 
nant vows I now make." 

COVENANT. 

" Heavenly Father ! I do now solemnly 
promise, and call all the angels in heaven to 
witness and record my promise, that I will en- 
deavor ever hereafter to do every thing I think 
will be pleasing in thy sight. I will strive to 
abstain from every thing which my conscience, 
as enlightened by thy Word, tells me to be 
wrong. Here, Lord, I promise that I will try 
constantly to have all my thoughts holy, my 
conversation pure, my actions right. I do here 
make the most entire and solemn consecration 
of myself, my mind, my heart, my all to thee. 
Conscious of my entire dependence upon the 



THE SAVIOR. 199 



Holy Spirit to enable me to keep my resolu- 
tions, and yet convinced that divine assistance 
will be afforded me according to my wants, I 
make this my solemn and irrevocable vow. I 
do it deliberately, understandingly, and with 
the full conviction that its violation will render 
me utterly inexcusable in the great day of trial. 
O, blessed Savior, come to the aid of thy frail 
and sinful child. Holy, Holy Spirit, make my 
heart thy temple ; sanctify me wholly ; present 
me faultless before God's throne. Father in 
heaven, wilt thou condescend to hear these my 
solemn vows, and help me, for Jesus Christ's 
sake, to keep them forever." 

Now, are you willing to enter into such a 
covenant with your Maker ? Can you read 
the preceding prayer, and offer it to God as 
your own, and then copy off the covenant, add- 
ing to it such thoughts as may occur to you as 
appropriate, sign your name to it, and thus 
commence a new life of entire devotedness to 
God? 

This is the way to commence a Christian 
life. This is the change in character to which 
the Bible alludes when it says of the Christian, 
" Old things have passed away, and all things 
have become new." This is the meaning of 



200 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

our Savior's declaration, " Whosoever he be of 
you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he can 
not be my disciple." This is the " strait gate 
and the narrow way which leads to everlasting 
life," and it is indeed true " that few there be 
that find it." Are you willing to enter in at 
the strait gate ? This is the point of separation 
between the regenerate and the unregenerate. 
This is the test by which we are to try our 
hearts and ascertain whether they are yet 
changed into the image of Christ, or are still 
unrenewed. It is this act of self-surrender, 
sincerely formed and perseveringly kept, which 
constitutes one a Christian. 

If you will go to God, and thus, in contrition 
and love, devote yourself to him, he will be in- 
deed your Father, and he will regard you as his 
beloved child. If you are not willing to do this, 
nothing else you can do will he be willing to 
receive as a substitute. He will look upon you 
as a rebel against him, refusing to submit to his 
authority. While in this state of estrangement 
from him, nothing you do will be acceptable in 
his sight ; the frown of his displeasure will fol- 
low you wherever you go. 

Here, then, is the question for you to decide ; 
and upov> its decision is suspended your eternal 
destiny. it is a point of duty so plain and 



THE SAVIOR. 201 



simple that the youngest child can understand 
it. It is simply saying yes, or no, to the clearly- 
revealed, well-known will of God. If you say 
yes, and endure to the end in living according 
to that declaration, you are a Christian, and all 
the angels of heaven love you as their sister ; 
and soon they will welcome you with the 
warmest acclamations to their happy, celestial 
home. If you say no, be it ever so faintly, so 
silently, — nay, more, if fearing to say no, you 
say nothing, and simply decline saying yes, — 
the decision is recorded in the book of God 
against you. There is written in the book of 
judgment opposite to your name, This child 
refuses to submit to God. 

It is by no means improbable that many who 
read this chapter, will, at its close, come to a 
decision in favor or against the service of God, 
which will be final. The emotions you are 
now cherishing are perhaps those which are to 
decide your destiny. The struggle with which 
your bosom is probably agitated while reading 
these lines, will soon subside into the peace and 
the joy of entire submission to God, or into aw- 
ful insensibility and spiritual death. Indeed this 
may be, in the providence of God, the last 
warning which will ever be addressed to you ; 
the path of duty being made plain — the alter- 



202 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

native of accepting or rejecting the Savior be- 
ing fairly presented — your present choice may 
be the one which God will regard as final, and 
he may soon take you to the eternal world to 
abide the consequences. 

Many children who read this book will die 
before another year shall pass away ; and why 
may not you, who are now reading it, be one 
of those who will not live another year ? You 
must therefore decide the question of consecra- 
ting your heart to God, in view of an early ap- 
pearance at his bar. You may be called, with- 
in a few weeks, to answer to him for the choice 
you now make. Nothing can be more solemn 
and awful than the thought, that should you de- 
cline now giving your heart to the Savior, you 
may, within a few weeks, be in your grave, and 
your soul reaping the recompense of reward in 
an unchanging eternity of sorrow. 

On the other hand, no thought can be more 
animating and delightful, than that you may 
now, if you have not done it before, secure 
your salvation. The Lord is waiting to be 
gracious ; the Savior is ready to welcome you. 
If you now, like Joshua of old, resolve, " as for 
me, I will serve the Lord," and if this decision 
is made under a sense of your dependence 
upon the Holy Spirit, then is your salvation 



THE SAVIOR. 203 



secured ; then, let death come when it may, it 
will be a welcome messenger to introduce you 
to joys such as your heart never has conceived. 
Whatever may be the vicissitudes of your 
earthly lot, the Lord will lead you safely through 
every scene of life, and finally welcome you 
with his parental blessing, to that world where 
there shall be no more painful struggle against 
temptation and sin. 

Let me, then, entreat you, as you value your 
everlasting happiness, to read again the prece- 
ding prayer and covenant, and inquire of your- 
self, if you can sincerely offer that prayer and 
adopt that covenant. Reflect deeply upon it ; 
count the cost ; reflect upon the reward of obe- 
dience, the penalty of disobedience ; then go to 
your chamber, fall upon your knees before God, 
and in the most fervent prayer your lips can 
utter, implore his forgiveness for the past, and 
his aid for the future. Then, with pen and pa- 
per, copy the covenant, with such additions as 
you may choose to make, sign your name to it, 
and upon your knees offer it most solemnly to 
God, as your final and inviolable vow. And, 
each succeeding day, read the covenant over, 
with many prayers that you may be reminded 
of your vows, and quickened to duty. 

This is the way to commence a Christian 



204 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

life. It is, however, but the commencement. 
It is a good and happy beginning, and, if you 
persevere in this course, it will lead to a most 
glorious ending. But you must not forget that 
the declaration of the Bible is, " He that endu- 
reth to the end, the same shall be saved." Per- 
severance must be your motto. He only is the 
true saint who perseveres. Perfect holiness 
must be the great object of our desires. Like 
Paul, you must not feel that you have already 
attained all that is necessary ; but, " forgetting 
those things which are behind, and reaching 
forth unto those things which are before, you 
must press toward the mark for the prize of the 
high calling of God in Christ Jesus." 



CHAPTER VIII 



EVEK.Y-DAY DUTY. 



It is very frequently the case that a young 
person becomes much interested in religion, 
and, for a time, is faithful in prayer, and con- 
scientious in the discharge of every known 
duty. Thus he continues for a few months 
manifesting the gentleness, the amability, and 
the tenderness of conscience of the young 
Christian. He is so affectionate and obedient to 
the wishes of his parents, so kind and yielding 
to his brothers and sisters, that home becomes 
a scene of new and unusual enjoyment. He 
is so diligent in his studies at school, and so 
careful to exert a good influence in preserving 
order and peace, that his teacher is highly grat- 
ified with the change. His own countenance 
beams with serenity, and at once tells, to all 
who see him, that he is more happy than he 
ever was before. After persevering in this new 
course of life, and enjoying this happy frame of 
mind, for a few months, gradually he neglects 



200 tiii: child at home. 



prayer, ceases to watch over his conduct, and, 
before he is even aware of it himself, becomes 
sadly insensible to all religious obligations. 

Such changes are not unfrequent with per- 
sons of mature age ; but they are so very 
common with the young, that is not consid- 
ered prudent to receive young persons to the 
church of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, 
until they have for a year or two manifested 
the spirit of a Christian. Christian principle 
must be enduring. If we would have our sins 
forgiven, and be received to heaven, we must, 
as long as we live, try to become more and 
more holy. We must feel that we have never 
attained to that perfection of character which 
God requires, but must, day after day, and year 
after year, endeavor to acquire more humility, 
gentleness, and loveliness of character, and to 
have more intimate communion with God. 

I wish in this chapter to guide the reader to 
the every-day duties of the Christian. I wish 
to show how you should manifest the spirit of 
Christ, in the midst of all the peculiar tempta- 
tions, and enjoyments, and trials of childhood. 

In my school-boy days, if I rightly remember, 
I thought it would be much easier to lead a 
Christian life when I became a man. I thought 
it must be far more difficult to be a consistent 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 207 



disciple of the Savior, in the midst of all the 
temptations of youth, and surrounded by play- 
mates at school, than it would be when I grew 
up to manhood, and had the character and reso- 
lution of mature years. But this, though a 
common feeling, is a very great mistake. The 
trials and temptations of youth and manhood 
are different in kind, but not very different in 
degree. On many accounts, the temptations 
of mature life are far the most severe. A man 
has cares and troubles which the young can 
hardly imagine. His time and his thoughts are 
greatly occupied by the pressure of his business. 
He has a family to support, and often is worn 
down with toil and care. Then, again, his 
habits are all formed, and are not so easily 
changed. It is also very difficult for him to 
break away from the associates with whom he 
has been familiar for perhaps many years. 

The young, on the contrary, have hardly any 
of these obstacles to encounter. Before their 
habits of feeling and action are formed, they 
can, with comparative ease, enter the narrow 
way which leads to life. If you ever intend to 
become a Christian, now is, by far, the best time. 
You can more easily commence a Christian 
life now, than at any other period. 

And what is it to be a Christian? It is just 



208 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

to do right ; to do right to God, and right to 
your fellow-creatures. God made you. God 
gives you all your blessings and enjoyments. 
God wishes soon to take you from this world, 
to be forever happy with him in heaven. It is 
right that you should love God, and do every 
thing you can to please him. Instead of this, 
you have been ungrateful for all his favors, and 
have often done that which you knew to be 
wrong. It is now right that you should be very 
penitent for having thus sinned against your 
best benefactor. Unless you are thus penitent 
you greatly increase your sin. Every day, 
every hour of impenitency adds to your guilt, 
and deepens the displeasure of God. 

God has given to us his written laws — writ- 
ten in the Bible, and confirmed by an enlight- 
ened conscience. He has thus told us what we 
must do, and what we must not do. These 
laws are probably, in their spirit, the same with 
those which are proclaimed throughout all God's 
empire. He in infinite wisdom, has seen it to 
be necessary to attach to the violation of this 
law the penalty of endless destruction. You 
have broken this law. We have all done so, 
and incurred the dreadful penalty. God tells 
us, in the Bible, that he has devised a plan by 
which he can save us, and yet uphold the 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 209 

dignity of his broken law. He has given his 
Son Jesus Christ to die in our stead, " to be 
wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for 
our iniquities." For reasons satisfactory to 
God, — no matter whether we can understand 
them or not, — he sees it to be necessary, for the 
dignity and stability of his moral government, 
that sin should not pass unpunished. He there- 
fore gave his Son, to bear the burden of our 
sins. And now, if we are ever saved, we must 
not only repent of sin, but we must trust in this 
Savior, who has died for us. We must cherish 
the feelings which are necessarily connected 
with the cordial admission that Christ has borne 
our sins in his own body on the tree ; the feel- 
ings of humility and contrition, in view of our 
own un worthiness ; the feelings of gratitude and 
of ardent love, which ought to glow in our 
bosoms, in view of our redemption from eternal 
punishment, by the voluntary sufferings and 
death of our Savior Jesus Christ. 

This is the Bible plan of salvation. Some 
think that they can appreciate its beauty, its 
excellency, its necessity ; others think that they 
can not see why it should be necessary for God 
to adopt a measure so wonderful. But it is no 
matter whether we can appreciate the necessity 
of this arrangement or not. This is the plan 
o 



210 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

which God has adopted. This is the scheme 
of salvation taught in the New Testament, and 
there is salvation in none other. And this plan 
is found to be practically so adapted to the 
wants and the weakness of the human mind, 
that from generation to generation, among all 
nations, the most savage as well as the most 
enlightened, it has afforded solace to the afflicted 
and support to the dying. 

You must come to God, therefore, penitent 
for your sins, and trusting in this Savior. This 
is what is called the foundation of Christian 
character ; and it is in reference to this, that it 
is written in the Bible, " Other foundation can 
no man lay than is laid, which is Jesus Christ." 
But the question arises, How are you to man- 
ifest, in daily life, the spirit of the Christian ? 
It certainly is not by assuming solemnity of 
countenance, and discarding the associates and 
the appropriate joys of childhood. I know not 
why you may not enjoy a game of ball as well, 
if you are governed by Christian principle, as 
you could if you were living without any re- 
gard to your Maker. Nay, it is certain that 
sincere piety will give a new relish to all your 
best enjoyments. 

There is, in fact, nothing which can con- 
tribute so much to any one's happiness as heart- 



EVElfY-DAY DUTY. 211 



felt religion. It enables one to enjoy the storm 
and the sunshine. It adds new charms to the 
summer morning, and new attractions to the 
winter evening. It matters not whether we 
are old or young, whether we are rich or poor : 
whether we are learned or unlearned, — sincere 
love to God not only enables us more highly to 
enjoy every thing really valuable, but contrib- 
utes more than every thing else combined to 
make us happy. Look into the Christian fam- 
ily, where the pure spirit of devotion reigns, and 
where the feelings of all are controlled by a 
constant desire to please God. You can not 
find, in all the ranks of the gay and the worldly, 
so happy a home. 

Have you, my reader, ever at any time en- 
deavored to serve God ? Have you ever, for a 
season, had the feeling that your sins were for- 
given, and that God was looking upon you with 
parental kindness ? Did not the thought make 
you happy ? Were you not more happy then 
than ever before ? And if you have now lost 
those feelings, are you not now almost con- 
stantly oppressed with uneasiness and dissatis- 
faction ? Can you now enjoy your daily sports 
with as much heartfelt satisfaction as you could 
then ? Do you go to bed at night, or awake in 
the morning, with as contented and joyful a 



212 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

heart ? No ! It is impossible. And I am con- 
fident that your friends will say that even your 
countenance shows that you are less happy than 
you then were. 

If now any child wishes to live a daily life 
of humble and consistent piety, I would recom- 
mend to him to pursue some such course as the 
following. 

When you awake in the morning, before you 
leave your chamber, you sincerely thank God 
for his kind care of you during the night, and 
pray that he will protect you from danger, and 
temptation, and sin during the day. Kneeling 
at your bedside, you offer some such prayer as 
the following : 

" O God, my Heavenly Father, I thank thee 
that thou hast preserved my life through an- 
other night, and that I again see the light of the 
morning. I shall be exposed to many tempta- 
tions this day ; and I beseech thee to enable me 
to abstain from every sin, and to cherish those 
feelings, and to manifest that spirit, which will 
be pleasing to thee. 

" May I make my parents happy by con- 
stantly doing that which will please them. May 
I, by a kind and obliging disposition, contribute 
to the enjoyment of my brothers and sisters. 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 213 

And especially, O God, I pray that thou wilt 
enable me to improve my time at school ; that 
my precious privileges may not be wasted ; 
that I may make rapid improvement in my 
studies, and prepare for a useful life. 

" Be with me, Heavenly Father, all the day, t 
that I may not think a wicked thought, that I 
may not speak an improper word, that I may 
not do a wrong thing. As I look back upon 
my past life, I see that I have spent many days 
unmindful of thee. I have thus incurred the 
penalty thou hast justly .threatened against sin- 
ners. O God, how can I be sufficiently grate- 
ful that thy son has died to save me ? I desire 
to trust in him, and I pray that thou wilt, for 
his sake, forgive me. 

" Hear, I entreat thee, and answer this my 
morning prayer. I offer it to thee in the name 
of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ ; and the 
praise shall ever be given to Father, Son, and 
Holy Ghost. Amen." 

You now go from your chamber. Is not 
your heart comparatively at peace ? Does not 
even your countenance show the serenity of 
your mind ? As you sit down at the breakfast- 
table, do you not feel happy, and are you not 
immediately conscious that your parents, and 



214 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

your brothers and sisters, regard you with un- 
usual affection ? 

There is something in this state of mind 
which not only makes the possessor happy, but 
almost resistlessly attracts the love of all with 
whom he associates. The spirit of kindness 
which reigns in his heart, the desire which he 
manifests to make all around him happy, se- 
cures to him, in return, kindness and good-will. 
During all the forenoon, the influence of your 
morning prayer continues, giving quietness to 
your own heart, and promoting the happiness 
and the peace of the family. Your carefulness 
to avoid irritation, your willingness to yield 
your own wishes to gratify the desires of your 
brothers and sisters, secures to those around 
you a vast amount of happiness. You join 
them in all their amusements, and with a grate- 
ful heart enjoy the pleasures which God thus 
gives you. 

The hour for school arrives. It is with you 
a matter of conscience, of Christian duty, to be 
at your seat in proper season. As you walk 
along to school, you offer a silent but earnest 
prayer to God, that he will enable you to pur- 
sue your studies with diligence and success. 
You implore his aid to enable you to resist all 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 215 

the temptations to which you may be exposed, 
in the school-room or on the play-ground. 

The influence of this prayer, even though 
it be but little more in your mind than the 
serious thought of your need of watchfulness 
and care, secures your mind from wandering* 
thoughts, and prepares you for close application 
to study. You can now enjoy intellectual 
effort. The perplexing sum in arithmetic be- 
comes less puzzling, from the ease with which 
you apply to it all the undivided energies of 
your mind. And you even turn over the leaves 
of your Latin dictionary, or your Greek lexi- 
con, with pleasurable emotions. The school- 
room is transformed from a place of irksome 
restraint to a scene of active enjoyment. Your 
teacher becomes, at once, one of your most 
beloved benefactors and friends. 

Recess comes. You are with the foremost 
on the play-ground. You have studied with 
close application, and have now a relish for a 
few moments of play. A dispute arises be- 
tween two of the boys. You good-naturedly 
allay the rising strife, and make peace. A ball 
is accidentally thrown to a distance, and a little 
contention is arising as to whose duty it is to 
go for it. You at once settle the dispute by 
laughingly running yourself and getting the ball. 



210 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



You are playing some game in which sides 
are chosen, and there is one boy too many. He 
can not be chosen by either party without 
making uneven sides. As he stands looking 
on upon the game, and wishing that he could 
join in the sport, you, after playing a little 
while, call out to him to take your place, and 
let you rest. 

One of your schoolmates is lame, and unable 
to join in the sports of the play-ground. He 
sits alone upon a rock, looking upon the games 




THE PLAY-GBOUND. 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 217 

of his more athletic companions, and sighs to 
think of the calamity, by which he is debarred 
from such enjoyments. The other boys, care- 
less and unreflecting, manifest but little sym- 
pathy for his lonely condition. You think of 
him. You strive to cultivate in your heart 
feelings of interest in his behalf. No matter 
whether he be an agreeable or a disagreeable 
boy, you remember your Savior, who was kind 
even to the unthankful and the evil. While 
others are playing, you go and sit by him, even 
though it be a serious sacrifice to you to lose 
your share in the game. 

These are the peculiar opportunities God 
presents to you, that you may manifest the 
spirit of the Christian. And it is doubtful 
whether the man, surrounded with all the cares 
of busy life, has a better opportunity to serve 
his Maker by making others happy, and by set- 
ting the example of Christian conduct, than 
such occasions as these afford to you. You 
may thus make the school-room and the play- 
ground promotive of the most precious moral 
discipline. You may thus be training yourself 
for a very happy and a very useful life, by cul- 
tivating those virtues which will cause others 
to love you, and which will give you influence. 
You may thus, by your example, be inducing 



218 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

many of your young associates to cherish the 
feelings and to exhibit the spirit which the 
gospel requires. 

It is a very mistaken notion, often entertained 
by young persons, that they can not do much 
good, because there is no active business of re- 
ligion in which they can engage. In your 
daily studies ; in your daily sports ; in all your 
daily intercourse with your associates, you may 
be effectually serving your Maker, and securing 
his approbation. The piety of a child is as 
pleasing in his sight as the piety of a man, and 
it may be as useful. Some incident of appa- 
rently a very trifling nature, in the sports of the 
play-ground, may produce an impression upon 
an associate's mind, which shall be as lasting as 
life, and which shall in fact not only decide his 
character, but shall be the stimulus to the most 
heroic deeds. 

Thus you pass the busy hours of the day, at 
home and at school, watching over yourself, 
endeavoring to regulate every thought, and 
word, and action, by God's holy law. Occa- 
sionally, you are called, for Christ's sake, to en- 
dure reproach. For instance, a boy treats you 
with rudeness and insult. He is of a malicious 
disposition, and seems inclined to quarrel with 
you. Others accuse you of cowardice, for pa- 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 219 

tiently bearing his ill-treatment, and by taunts 
and jeers endeavor to provoke you to retaliate. 
It requires great decision of character, great 
firmness and moral courage, and even strong 
Christian principle, to overcome such a tempta- 
tion. Men have their temptations. They are 
different in kind from those of boys, but I think 
not greater in degree. It may be as difficult 
for you to resist such a temptation as this, — 
that is, it may require as much strength of 
Christian principle, as to resist any temptation, 
to which you will afterward be exposed in man- 
hood. And if you yield to this temptation, it 
weakens your power of resistance. Whenever 
any new trial comes, you more easily fall. 

God allows you to be exposed to such trials, 
as a part of your probation, — as discipline for 
your mental and moral powers. And when 
you are striving to resist all allurements to sin, 
to obtain the entire mastery over your passions, 
you are as much serving God and answering 
the great end of your being, as you can be, in 
any of the apparently more important business 
of life. The trial which it is necessary for you 
to encounter in obeying God are by no means 
small. God does not intend that they shall be 
small. He knows just how severe they are. 
And he exposes you to them, because he sees it 



220 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

to be best for the formation of your character 
for eternity, that you should learn to be morally 
courageous, and that you should show your 
resolution to serve him, though encountering 
strong opposition. Thus you must learn in 
youth to dare to do your duty. You must learn 
not to be afraid of the ridicule of the wicked. 
You must learn, calmly, quietly, and good- 
humoredly, to do that which is right, and to re- 
fuse to do that which is wrong, whatever others 
may say. And if you do not learn this in 
youth, you probably never will learn it. You 
will be a fickle, inconstant man, unworthy of 
confidence or respect. 

There is hardly any courage of more difficult 
attainment, than that which enables one to dare 
to do right. And there is certainly no quality 
of mind more indispensable to a useful and 
happy life. It is the want of this moral courage 
which leads so many persons to the ruin of in- 
temperance, and to death by duelling. 

A young man is invited by his companions 
to join them in some plan of pleasure which 
his conscience condemns. He knows that it is 
wrong to consent. But he dares not decline. 
He is invited again. He fears that he will be 
ridiculed if he refuses. He is urged a third 
time ; and again he complies, because he has 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 221 

not the courage to refuse. Thus he becomes 
the slave of other persons. He fears to do what 
he thinks to be right, and from the apprehen- 
sion of ridicule, becomes the servant of anoth- 
er's will to do his bidding. Is it not ignoble 
and disgraceful to yield to such cowardice ?. 
One who acts thus, as he goes on through life, 
has his character formed by others. He has 
not strength of mind to break away from dissi- 
pated associates. He has no resolution to re- 
sist the temptations with which they beset him, 
till at last he lies down in an early grave. I have 
seen many a youth, of the fairest promise, thus 
ruined forever, for want of that moral courage 
which dares to do right. I could give you the 
history of not a few, who, when boys, were 
most amiable in disposition, and of active 
minds, who might now have been among the 
most influential of the community, but who, 
from want of this decision of character, yielded 
to one temptation after another, till they went 
down in disgrace and sorrow to the grave. 

See this man, challenged by some unprinci- 
pled wretch to fight a duel. He is a husband 
and a father. His wife and his children are at 
home. They are dependent upon him for sup- 
port, for almost every earthly joy. He is bound 
by the most solemn obligations to take care of 



222 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

them, and not to leave them, deprived of his 
support. 

He receives from some worthless enemy of 
holiness and of happiness, a challenge to fight a 
duel. He sits in his chamber, with his pen in 
hand, meditating respecting the answer which 
he shall return. He thinks, " What would my 
poor wife, what would my dear children say, if 
they knew what I am contemplating ? If I am 
killed, my wife has no earthly protector ! How 
can she alone support the children ? How 
wretched must they be, when the tidings reach 
them that I am dead — killed in a duel ! Have 
I any right thus to expose them to all this 
wretchedness ? How many days of sorrow, 
and nights of weeping, must my family endure 
if I am thus taken from them ! 

" And how can I answer to God for appearing 
thus unbidden in his presence ? for thus aban- 
doning the most sacred duties of life, and leav- 
ing my helpless family to the inheritance of 
years of sorrow ?" 

Then again, he thinks, " If I decline this 
challenge, I shall be called a coward. Many 
will ridicule me." He is afraid to do right, lest 
he should encounter the scoffs of the dissolute. 
If he had more moral courage, he would tri- 
umph over such fears But from early boy- 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 



223 



hood he has been acting according to the opin- 
ions of others, not his own. And now he is the 
slave of the worthless — so entirely their slave, 
that his character, his life, and the happiness of 
his family, are entirely in their hands. Instead 
of exercising manly fearlessness and decision, 
and determining to do what his conscience tells 
him to be right, 
though the whole 
world should join 
in the chorus of 
ridicule, with a 
mean and coward- 
ly spirit, he surren- 
ders himself to the 
circumstances in 
which he finds him- 
self entangled. 

He accepts the 
challenge. He is 
soon found upon the 

field, with the instrument of death in his nand. 
A ball enters his body from his opponent's gun, 
and he falls dead upon the ground. There he 
lies, the victim of moral cowardice. He was 
afraid to do that which he knew to be right. 
Ae had not sufficient strength of principle and 
boldness of heart to brave the reproach of those 




TEE DUEL. 



224 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

who are totally unworthy of regard. His wife 
is a widow. Her heart is broken with anguish. 
Years of lamentation are her lot. His children 
are fatherless. The guide of their youth is ta- 
ken from them, and they are left to encounter 
the temptations of life, and to struggle against 
its hardships with no father to guide and help 
them. 

Many have thus perished, for want of acquir- 
ing this moral courage in boyhood. They have 
yielded, in the school-room and on the play- 
ground, to the importunities of those who 
would entice them to do wrong. Every time 
they yield, weakens their power of future re- 
sistance ; and thus they grow up with no de- 
cision of character, ever ready to fall before the 
least breath of temptation. 

You should ever remember this, when soli- 
cited to do that which your conscience disap- 
proves. By yielding to the temptation thus 
presented, you not only commit a great sin at 
the time, but you expose yourselves to future 
consequences of the most terrible nature. You 
prepare the way for a rapid descent to ruin. 
You begin to slide down the hill, and it will be 
very hard to stop. 

Reflect, then, whenever tempted to the least 
wrong-doing, that consequences of the most 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 225 

momentous importance may be suspended on 
your decision. Every triumph over tempta- 
tion enables you to triumph the next time more 
easily. Your resolution is fortified, your char- 
acter is matured by the trial. One victory of 
this kind in boyhood, may give you a strength 
and firmness of purpose, which shall be an in- 
valuable blessing to you through your whole 
life, and indeed through your whole immortal 
existence. 

These are the ways in which you are to man- 
ifest the character of a Christian. This is the 
discipline by which God is training you for the 
society of angels, and for brighter worlds above. 
Every day you will have your trials, many, and 
perhaps severe ones. If you meet them with a 
right spirit, and, by looking to God for help, 
triumph over them, they will prove your rich- 
est blessings. If, on the contrary, you yield, 
and fall before them, day after day, you will be 
growing more weak in mind and heart, till you 
are lost, not only to usefulness and happiness in 
this life, but also in that to come. 

As you pass along through the hours of the 
day, then, be careful to act continually under 
the influence of Christian principle, in all that 
you do. And when the day is over, and you 
lie in darkness and silence upon your bed, re- 



226 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

fleeting upon the scenes of the day, endeavor- 
ing to recall each thought, and word, and deed, 
you will take great pleasure in the retrospection. 
You will, however, probably, every night, find 
very much for which you must implore the di- 
vine forgiveness. In your self-examination you 
ask yourself such questions as the following : — 

1. " Was I faithful and sincere in my prayers 
this morning ? 

2. " Have I been all the day affectionate and 
obedient to my father and my mother ? 

3. " Have I done all that I could, by being 
kind and obliging, to make my brothers and 
sisters happy, and to make every thing in the 
family peaceful and pleasant ? 

4. " Have I improved my time at school to 
the utmost of my power, in studying with dili- 
gence, and in trying to promote quietness and 
good order ? 

5. " Have I resisted all the risings of passion 
avoiding every feeling of irritation or of anger 
of envy or vanity ? 

6. " Have I been conscientious in doing every 
thing that I thought to be right, and in avoiding 
every thing that my conscience told me to be 
wrong ? 

7. " Has it been my prevailing desire this day 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 227 

to please my Maker ? Has this been the motive 
which I have regarded as more important than 
all others ?" 

Even if you were able, at the close of every 
day, to answer all these questions in the affirma-, 
tive, you would then be entitled to no special 
credit ; for you would only have done what you 
ought to have done. You would merely have 
done that which it would have been utterly in- 
excusable for you to have neglected. And yet 
the thought that you have been in some meas- 
ure faithful in duty, will give you great peace 
and satisfaction. 

As you now look back upon your past life, at 
the close of how many days do you suppose you 
could have returned an affirmative answer to 
the above questions ? Has there ever been a 
single day, during your life, at the close of which 
you could say, I have this day committed no 
wrong, and done all my duty ? If there has not 
been one such day, how great a sinner are you 
in God's sight ! Ought you not deeply to feel 
your sin ? Ought you not earnestly to pray for 
forgiveness ? And ought you not to feel very 
grateful to that Savior who has died to atone 
for your sins, who has borne the penalty of them 
in his own body on the tree ? 



228 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

You will thus feel every night, if you are 
faithful in self-examination. Instead of being 
puffed up with spiritual pride, in view of your 
own fancied righteousness ; instead of offering 
the prayer of the Pharisee, '• O God, I thank thee 
that I am not as others are," you will be humble 
and penitent, and your evening prayer will be, 
" O God, be merciful to me a sinner." 

Suppose after this self-examination, and be- 
fore falling to sleep, you offer such a prayer as 
the following : 

"Heavenly Father, I thank thee that thou 
hast preserved my life another day, and that, 
surrounded with so many comforts, I lie down 
to sleep this night. My sins, this day, have 
been many. In thought, in word, and in deed, 
I have done much, that is wrong. Thine eye 
has been upon me all the day. Thou hast seen 
how I have employed each hour, and hast known 
every thought of my heart. For all the sup- 
port thou hast this day afforded me in resisting 
temptation, I would offer to thee my gratitude ; 
and for the sake of the Savior, who hath died 
for sinners such as I am, I entreat thee to for- 
give all my offenses. I thank thee, O God, that 
thou hast provided a way, by which, though a 
sinner, I may be saved from my sins. May I 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 229 

be duly penitent, and more carefully try to do 
all thy will. 

" Wilt thou now take care of me this night. 
And when I awake in the morning, wilt thou 
prepare me to live a more holy life another day. 
Be with me, my Father and my Friend, as long 
as I shall live, and when thou dost remove me 
from the world, O, take me to dwell with thee 
forever ; and thine shall be the glory, Father, 
Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen." 

These emotions are soothing to the soul. If 
they are the sincere and deeply-seated feelings 
of your heart, they will afford you tranquillity 
and joy. Let others say that religion causes 
melancholy ; you will find that your religion is 
the source of your purest joys. Every year it 
will diminish your exposure to sorrow, by giv- 
ing you a more perfect triumph over all trouble- 
some passions, and rendering you less liable to 
fall before temptation. As you pass through 
the scenes of youth, and enter upon the toils 
and cares of manhood, you will be fortified, by 
established principles, for all the scenes through 
which you may be called to pass. And when, 
in old age, should your life be spared so long, 
you lie down upon your bed to die, you will 
look foward to eternity, with a calm and peace- 



230 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

ful spirit, which will be of more value to you 
than countless worlds. 

This is religion. A transient feeling of peni- 
tence is not piety. A few days or weeks of 
watchfulness and prayer do not constitute the 
Christian life. " He that endureth to the end 
shall be saved," says God. If you would be 
the friend of God, you must decide to be his 
forever. You must resolve, and persevere in 
your resolution, to live in watchfulness, and 
penitence, and prayer, till God shall remove you 
to another world. This is the way to be saved. 
This is the narrow path which leads to life. 
How true is the assertion of the Bible, as ex- 
pressed by the poet ! — 

" Broad is the road that leads to death, 
And thousands walk together there ; 
While Wisdom shows a narrow path, 
With here and there a traveler." 

And can you entertain any doubt whether 
this be the happiest mode of life ? God loves 
to see his children happy ; and probably the 
reason why he has, in his Word, so earnestly 
enforced the necessity of living in this way is, 
that he sees that this, and this only, can pro- 
mote your best enjoyment. These are those 
ways of wisdom which are declared to be pleas- 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 231 

antness, and those paths which we are assured 
are peace. 

Can I appeal to the experience of any read- 
er ? Have you not invariably found that when 
you most earnestly endeavored to serve God, 
by a prayerful and conscientious life, that you 
were the most happy ? And is it not the testi- 
mony of good men in all ages of the world, that 
they have found the service of God a delight ? 
that in his service they have experienced joys 
which they never could find while neglecting 
him ? 

It is strange that any persons can think that 
any one can be a Christian, can be in any way 
pleasing God, who does not live as I have above 
described. But it can not be denied that there 
are many persons who seem to think that a life 
of prayer and watchfulness over one's heart, is 
not necessary to prepare for heaven. Such 
persons invariably have no relish for spiritual 
duties. They take no pleasure in prayer, or 
in any heartfelt communion with God. Almost 
entirely neglecting their Maker themselves, and 
merely falling in with the general arrangements 
of society around them, as to moral conduct 
and external acts of worship, they strive to 
quiet conscience, by adopting the principle, that 



232 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

prayer, and penitence, and faith in Christ are 
not essential to salvation. 

It is very strange that any one with the Bible 
in hand — I ought rather to say within his reach, 
for such persons are seldom seen reading the 
Bible — can venture to express such an opinion 
as this, even though there be the strong motive 
of excusing one's self for the neglect of duty, 
and quieting the compunctions of conscience. 
Indeed it would seem that the common sense 
of any one must show that God ought to be 
loved, — that he ought to be the object of the 
warmest affections of the heart ; and that we all 
ought to be doing every thing in our power to 
make others happy, and to be growing holy 
ourselves. 

The person who adopts not this mode of 
life, whether he be a man or a boy, is an im- 
penitent sinner in the sight of God. He is en- 
tirely unprepared to appear before the judg- 
ment-seat of Christ. And if he is deceiving 
himself with the expectation that God will over- 
look his sins, and receive him from his prayer- 
less life on earth, to happiness in heaven, he 
will soon find his dreadful error. There are 
those, God tells us, who will exclaim, " The har- 
vest is past, the summer is ended, and we are 
not saved." 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 233 

Do not, then, allow yourself to be deceived 
and betrayed by such opinions. Do not imitate 
the example of a prayerless and irreligious 
world. Do not follow the thronging crowds 
which press along the broad way which leads to 
ruin. Do not imagine that there is any way by 
which you can be saved, but by repentance for 
sin, and faith in our Lord and Savior Jesus 
Christ. 

I have said that there are many who seem to 
think that they are Christians, while living in 
the almost entire neglect of their Maker. And 
still I am inclined to think, that there are very 
few in Christian lands who really do think so. 
There is almost always a feverish excitability 
about such persons, whenever they speak upon 
the subject of religion, which shows that they 
are ill at ease. And though they may make very 
confident assertions, and do all in their power 
to beguile others into the same sentiments, they 
seldom in life manifest the composure of settled 
faith, or in death exemplify the assurance of the 
undoubting Christian. 

Do not allow your immortal hopes to be 
wrecked upon this shallow rock. It is indeed 
so shallow, that it ought not to deceive any in- 
telligent mind. Love your Maker — cherish for 
him, by meditation and daily secret prayer, the 



234 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

most sincere and ardent affection. Be grateful 
to your Savior. Be not ashamed to own his 
name ; to avow, before friend and foe, that you 
wish to be his disciple. Daily examine your 
own heart and conduct, that you may be peni- 
tent for sin, and know the peculiar temptations 
by which you are most endangered. Pray to 
God for daily assistance to overcome tempta- 
tion. And endeavor in every way, as long as 
you live, to cultivate every virtue, and to do 
all the good in your power, by making others 
better and happier. Let these be the unchang- 
ing principles by which you will govern your 
life. Then you will have a reason for the hope 
that is within you. Your anticipation of heav- 
en will be founded upon a reasonable support, 
worthy the reliance of a rational mind. And 
if others are disposed to trust themselves in the 
"broad way," thinking it will lead them to 
heaven, pity them, and pray for them, and do 
all you can to convince them of their error, but 
do not, O, do not follow them. 

I have seen many of these infatuated men on 
the bed of dangerous sickness, and in the hour 
of death. I have heard their unavailing lamen- 
tations over a misspent life, and witnessed the 
anguish with which they contemplated their ap- 
pearance before God's bar in judgment. It is 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 235 

true that such persons often die in great insen- 
sibility; the thoughtlessness and unconcern 
which have attended them through life reign, 
in undiminished power, in the hour of death. 
But not unfrequently they die in the extremest 
depths of horror and despair. The spirit suffers 
more than the body, in the hour of departure. 
The gloom of the world of woe seems to come 
up and settle around the dying bed. 

If you would die the death of the righteous, 
you must live the life of the righteous. If you 
would be acknowledged by the Savior before 
our Father who is in heaven, you must be ready 
to acknowledge and serve him here on earth. 
Even though surrounded by temptations, like 
those which beset Daniel in the court of Bel- 
shazzar, or threatened with a terrible death, as 
he was, in the den of lions, you must, like him, 
faithfully and perseveringly worship and serve 
God. Then you may have his tranquil spirit, 
and death can have for you no terrors. 

But you are not to imagine that, if you are a 
Christian, you will therefore, in this life, be al- 
ways happy. Man is born to sorrow. This is 
a world of trial. No one enters it without ex- 
periencing sorrow. Whether you are a Chris- 
tian or not, you must endure sickness and pain. 
Your dearest friends must die. You can hardly 






236 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

escape many hours of anxiety, and may, from 
mental or physical causes, occasionally suffer 
from depression of spirits. 

But if you are sincerely a Christian, there 
are very many sorrows to which others are ex- 
posed, from which you are shielded. The sor- 
rows of unrestrained passions you, in a great 
degree, escape. God preserves you, by your 
Christian principles, from falling into the woes 
of dissipation, into which those who are not 
Christians are ever in the greatest danger of 
falling. You have a far more calm and tran- 
quil spirit than you could have without the sup- 
ports and consolations of piety. And, above 
all, when sorrow does come ; when, by a re- 
verse of fortune, property flies away ; or when 
sickness enters your dwelling, and your friends 
die ; or when you are called upon to lie upon a 
dying bed — you have sources of comfort and 
of joy which the irreligious man can never 
know. 

It is in the world to come that you are to 
reap the full enjoyment of serving God. There, 
in brighter spheres, among the suns and sys- 
tems with which God has strewed infinity, 
with a perfectly holy heart, with angels for 
your associates, and with God's glory all 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 237 

around, you will rejoice in unbounded and eter- 
nal joy. 

But here is your state of trial and discipline. 
You can find no path through life in which you 
will not meet many sorrows. Be prepared, 
then, for these troubles. Know that they are 
your necessary lot. Try to make them the 
means of your spiritual improvement. Then 
you may learn the meaning of the poet — 

" Heaven's favors here are trials, not rewards, 
A call to duty, not release from care." 

Afflictions fall upon all — the penitent and the 
impenitent, the sinner and the saint. But while 
those who are regardless of God are growing 
harder in heart and more wicked under their 
trials, and while they have no consolation to 
support them in adversity, the disciples of the 
Savior are deriving the most precious advan- 
tages from all their sorrows ; their hearts are 
growing better by the discipline, and they are 
fast preparing for endless joy in heaven. 

With whom, my young reader, will you cast 
your lot ? You find many motives urging you 
to be a Christian. The Spirit of God, with its 
still, small voice, probably often strives with you 
to lead you back to your heavenly Father's 






238 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

service. A faithful conscience often tells you 
your duty. The voice of the gospel preacher, 
the instructions of the Sabbath-school, the sa- 
cred silence of God's holy day, the mournful 
tones of the funeral bell, often remind you of 
the world to which you are going, and solicit 
you to prepare for its awful scenes. These are 
the means which God is ever using to lead you 
to him. 

On the other hand, there are many tempta- 
tions, seducing you to postpone repentance and 
neglect God. The natural heart feels a strong 
repugnance to the duties of self-examination 
and persevering, secret prayer. Thoughtless 
associates stand in the way of the surrender of 
your hearts and lives to God. You fear singu- 
larity. You are apprehensive of ridicule. In- 
dolence suggests to you to remain contentedly 
as you are, without engaging in the struggle 
against sin. 

Thus you, very probably, halt between two 
opinions. Like the Israelites of old, you hesi- 
tate in choosing whom you will serve. How 
immense are the consequences depending upon 
the decision ! — no less than eternal holiness and 
happiness, or endless sin and misery. The Bi- 
ble declares that good angels and lost spirits 
watch the progress of the struggle, which is, 



EVERY-DAY DUTY. 239 

perhaps, now agitating your mind. The devil, 
as a roaring lion, walketh about seeking whom 
he may devour ; and there is joy in the pres- 
ence of the angels of God over one sinner that 
repenteth. 

Choose the Lord for your portion ; conse- 
crate your all to his service, and you will be in- 
deed happy. You will have consolation in 
life's troubles, support in the hour of death, and 
eternal happiness in heaven. 



CHAPTER IX. 



INDUSTRY. 



Many young persons seem to think it is not 
of much consequence if they do not improve 
their time well when in youth, for they can 
make it up by diligence when they are older. 
They think it is disgraceful for men and women 
to be idle, but that there can be no harm for 
persons who are young to spend their time in 
any manner they please. 

George Jones thought so. He was twelve 
years old. He went to an academy to prepare 
to enter college. His father was at great ex- 
pense in obtaining books for him, clothing him, 
and paying his tuition. But George was idle. 
The preceptor of the academy would often tell 
him that if he did not study diligently when 
young, he would never succeed well. But 
George thought of nothing but present pleasure. 
Often would he go to school without having 
made any preparation for his morning lesson ; 
and when called to recite with his class, he 



INDUSTRY. 241 



would stammer, and hesitate, and make such 
blunders, that the rest of his class could not 
help laughing at him. He was one of the poor- 
est scholars in school, because he was one of 
the most idle. 

When the recess came, and all the boys ran 
out of the academy, upon the play-ground, idle 
George would come moping along in a very 
slow and idle manner. Instead of studying dil- 
igently while in school, he was indolent and 
usually half asleep. And then when the proper 
time for play came, he had no relish for it. 

I recollect very well that, when tossing up 
for a game of ball, we used to choose every body 
on the play-ground before we chose George. 
And if there were enough to play without him, 
we used to leave him out. Thus was he un- 
happy in school and out of school. There is 
nothing which makes a person enjoy play so 
well as to study hard. When recess was over, 
and the rest of the boys returned fresh and vig- 
orous to their studies, George might be seen 
lagging and moping along to his seat. Some- 
times he would be asleep in school, sometimes 
he would pass his time in catching flies and 
penning them up in little holes, which he cut in 
his seat. And sometimes, when the preceptor's 
a 



242 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

back was turned, he would throw a paper ball 
across the room. 

When the class was called up to recite, 
George would come drowsily along, looking 
ashamed of himself, as though he were going to 
be punished. The rest of the class stepped up 
to the recitation with alacrity, and appeared 
happy and contented. When it came George's 
turn to recite, he would be so long, and make 
such blunders, that all most heartily wished him 
out of the class. 

At last George went with his class to enter 
college. Though he passed a very poor exam- 
ination, he was admitted with the rest, for those 
who examined him thought it was possible that 
the reason why he did not answer the questions 
better was that he was frightened. Now came 
hard times for poor George. In college there 
is not much mercy shown to bad scholars ; and 
George had neglected his studies so long that 
he could not now keep up with his class, let 
him try ever so hard. 

He could without much difficulty get along 
in the academy, where there were only two or 
three boys of his own class to laugh at him. 
But now he had to go into a large recitation- 
room, filled with students from all parts of the 
country. In the presence of all these he must 



INDUSTRY. 243 



rise and recite to the professor. Poor fellow ! 
He paid dear for his idleness. You would 
have pitied him, if you could have seen him 
trembling in his seat, every moment expecting 
to be called upon to recite. And when he was 
called upon, he could not recite at all. Some- 
times he would make such ludicrous blunders, 
that the whole class would burst into a laugh. 
Such are the applauses idleness gets. He was 
wretched, of course. He had been idle so long, 
that he hardly knew how to apply his mind to 
study. All the good scholars avoided him ; 
they were ashamed to be seen in his company. 
He became discouraged, and gradually grew 
dissipated. 

The government of the college soon were 
compelled to suspend him. He returned in a 
few months, but did no better ; and his father 
was then advised to take him away from col- 
lege. He left college, despised by every one. 
A few months ago I met him in New York, a 
poor wanderer, without money or friends. Such 
are the wages of idleness. I hope every reader 
will, from this history, take warning, and 
"stamp improvement on the wings of time." 

This story of George Jones, which is a true 
one, shows how sinful and ruinous it is to be 
idle. Every child who would do his duty, must 



244 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

guard against this sin. But as I have given 
you one story, which shows the sad effects of 
indolence, I will now present you with another, 
more pleasing, which shows the rewards of in- 
dustry. 

Charles Bullard was a classmate of George. 
Charles was about of the same age with George, 
and did not possess naturally superior talents. 
Indeed, I doubt whether he was equal to him, 
in natural powers of mind. But Charles was a 
hard student. When quite young, he was al- 
ways careful to be diligent in school. Some- 
times, when there was a very hard lesson, in- 
stead of going out in the recess to play, he 
would stay in to study. He had resolved that 
his first object should be to get his lesson well, 
and then he could play with a good conscience. 

He loved play as well as any body, and was 
one of the best players on the ground ; I hardly 
ever saw any boy catch a ball better than he 
could. When playing any game every one 
was glad to get Charles on his side. 

I have said that Charles would sometimes 
stay in at recess. This, however, was very 
seldom ; it was only when the lesson was very 
hard indeed. Generally he was among the 
first upon the play-ground, and he was also 
among the first to go into school, when called 



INDUSTRY. 245 



in. Hard study gave him a relish for play, and 
play again gave him a relish for hard study ; 
so he was happy both in school and out. The 
preceptor could not help liking him, for he al- 
ways had his lessons well committed, and never 
gave his teacher any trouble. 

When he went to enter college, the precep- 
tor gave him a good recommendation. He was 
able to answer all the questions which were put 
to him when he was examined. He had studied 
so well when he was in the academy, and was 
so thoroughly prepared for college, that he found 
it very easy to keep up with his class, and had 
much time for reading interesting books. But 
he would always first get his lesson well, before 
he did any thing else, and would review it just 
before recitation. When called upon to recite, 
he rose tranquil and happy, and very seldom 
made any mistake. The government of the 
college had a high opinion of him, and he was 
respected by all the students. 

There was in the college a society made up 
of all of the best scholars. Charles was chosen 
a member of that society. It was the custom 
to choose some one of the society to deliver a 
public address every year. This honor was 
conferred on Charles ; and he had studied so 
diligently, and read so much, that he delivered 



246 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

an address, which was very interesting to all 
who heard it. At last he graduated, as it is 
called ; that is, he finished his collegiate course, 
and received his degree. It was known by all 
that he was a good scholar, and by all he was 
respected. His father and mother, brothers and 
sisters, came, commencement day, to hear him 
speak. They all felt gratified, and loved Charles 
more than ever. Many situations of usefulness 
and profit were opened to him, for Charles was 
now a man, intelligent, and universally re- 
spected. He is now a useful and a happy man. 
He has a cheerful home, and is esteemed by all 
who know him. 

Such are the rewards of industry. How 
strange is it, that any persons should be willing 
to live in idleness, when it will certainly make 
them unhappy ! The idle boy is almost invari- 
ably poor and miserable ; the industrious boy is 
happy and prospered. 

But perhaps some child who reads this, asks, 
" Does God notice children in school ?" He 
certainly does. And if you are not diligent in 
the improvement of your time, it is one of the 
surest of evidences that your heart is not right 
w 7 ith God. You are placed in this world to im- 
prove your time. In youth you must be pre- 
paring for future usefulness. And if you do 



INDUSTRY. 247 



not improve the advantages you enjoy, you sin 
against your Maker. 

" With books, or work, or healthful play, 
Let your first years be past, 
That you may give, for every day, 
Some good account at last." 

When boys are told that their success in fu- 
ture life depends almost entirely upon the im- 
provement they make in school, they do not 
really believe it. They do not, at once, see the 
connection between the studies they are pursu- 
ing, and their prosperity in any business, in 
which they may afterward engage. But you 
may depend upon it, that the only way in which 
you can become respected and useful as men, 
is to be studious as boys. If you are idle in 
school, thinking only of your ball, and your 
hoop, and your kite ; if you thus waste your 
school-boy years in indolence and in play, when 
you become a man you will be ignorant and 
weak-minded. You will not be respected by 
your fellow-men. In all probability, you will 
not be successful in any business in which you 
may engage, and you will live and die in pov- 
erty and obscurity. 

Your parents have lived long enough in the 
world to know this. They have seen what be- 



248 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

comes of idle school-boys. Some of them be- 
come poor sailors, without home or friends. 
They wander over the ocean, living in the dis- 
mal forecastle of a ship, exposed to driving 
storms and drenching rains, till they die, and 
the deep ocean becomes their grave. They 
can not rise to take command of a ship, and 
thus acquire property so as to obtain a future 
home on land, because they are so ignorant, 
and have been so long accustomed to habits of 
idleness. And thus they live and die, poor, 
friendless, comfortless sailors. Others remain 
at home ; but they have no influence over their 
fellow-men. They are not respected. In all 
probability, they live in poverty, and at last die, 
with few to mourn their loss. 

Your parents see this, and that you may 
not thus live and die, they purchase books for 
you, and obtain a teacher, and send you to 
school. And every day you pass in diligent 
study tends to promote your usefulness and 
your happiness through the whole of your fu- 
ture life. It gives manliness and energy to 
your mind, and it prepares you successfully 
to grasp all the great concerns of the business 
world. If, on the other hand, you neglect these 
privileges, and spend your time in idleness, you 
incur a loss which vou never can retrieve ; 



STUDY. 249 



you darken your prospects for happiness through 
all the years of your manhood ; you will be less 
respected, and successful, and influential as a 
man. 

Henry and Carlos are studying geography. 
Henry is deeply interested in the study. He 
reads of Europe, of Asia, of Africa, of Amer- 
ica. He learns where the lion roars, and where 
the orange and the cocoa-nut grow. He learns 
where the Arab gallops over the desert of sand, 
on his beautiful and light-footed horse. He 
learns where cities of civilization rise in their 
splendor ; where wealth and refinement spread 
their richest charms, and where the savage 
prowls through the forest, and makes the soli- 
tudes of the wilderness echo with his shouts. 
His mind is strengthened by these instructions. 
He loves to let his imagination roam at will, 
among the majestic mountains, and along the 
vast rivers of this wonderful world. He be- 
comes thus, more of a man — less of a boy. His 
increasing intelligence shines in his face. His 
instructor, his parents, and all his friends re- 
gard him with affection and esteem. And his 
own consciousness that he is making intellect- 
ual advances, animates him and makes him 
happy. 

But Carlos is passing his time in indolence, 



250 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

an idle, mischievous boy. He has neglected 
his studies so long, that his very countenance 
looks dull and stupid. He feels guilty and de- 
graded, and is ashamed to look any one frankly 
in the face. At one time, you may see him in 
school, nodding on his bench, half asleep. By- 
and-by he wakes up, and with his knife begins 
to carve out a fly-cage in his bench, or is fool- 
ishly employed in making paper balls to throw 
about the room. 

Carlos's father wishes to get him into busi- 
ness, and he goes to a merchant in the city to 
see if he will take him into his store, as a clerk. 
It is a fine situation. The young man who ob- 
tains it, and is faithful, has the prospect of be- 
ing, in a few years, a partner in the firm, with 
the opportunity of securing to himself all that 
is comfortable in life — of taking a high stand in 
society— of being a man of usefulness, and in- 
fluence, and respectability. 

The merchant replies to Carlos's father, " I 
will make inquiries respecting your son, and if 
I find him to be such a boy as we want, I shall 
be very happy to take him." 

He then goes to Carlos's teacher and says to 
him, " I have had an application from Carlos's 
father to take his son into my store, as a clerk. 
I want an active, intelligent, industrious boy, 



STUDY. 251 



and if you can recommend Carlos to me as 
such a lad, I shall be glad to take him." 

" Why, sir," says the teacher, " I am sorry to 
say any thing against any one of my pupils, but 
I can not conscientiously recommend Carlos. 
The fact is, he will not do for you at all. He 
is a very dull and unfaithful boy. I have done 
every thing in my power to stimulate him to 
study, but it is all in vain. He is idle and mis- 
chievous, and unless there is soon a thorough 
change in his character, I fear that he will never 
be good for any thing. 

" But there is Henry ; he is a boy of very 
unusual promise. If you can get him, sir, you 
will have one in whose fidelity and industry 
you can place implicit reliance. There is not 
a more diligent and intelligent lad in my 
school." 

" Can he write a good hand ?" inquires the 
merchant. 

"Very good indeed," replies the teacher; 
" he has been very careful about his writing, 
and has made wonderful improvement. Stop 
a moment, and I will show you his writing- 
book." 

" Does he know much about arithmetic ?" 
inquires the merchant. " We want a boy that 
is pretty quick at figures." 



252 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

" Yes," replies the teacher, " he is an excel- 
lent scholar in arithmetic. He has gone through 
the double rule of three, and, for a boy of his 
age, I do not know of any one who understands 
arithmetic better." 

" Well, how is he," continues the merchant, 
"in geography? We have transactions with 
almost all parts of the world, and it is very 
desirable that the boy we take, should know 
something about the various places with which 
we are connected." 

" He is at the head of his class in that study," 
replies the teacher. 

"He is just the boy we want, then," said the 
merchant. " But I wish that Carlos would do, 
for his father first applied for the situation. 
But you think he will not answer, do you ?" 

" I am confident he would not," replies the 
teacher. " I am sorry to say so, but it is out of 
the question. Why, here is his writing-book. 
Just look at it. See the blots and scrawls. 
And as to arithmetic, he actually does not know 
the multiplication-table. And in geography, 
and particularly in spelling, he is very backward 
indeed." 

" Well, I am sorry for him," says the mer- 
chant. " These idle boys little know how they 



STUDY. 253 



are ruining themselves." He then goes home, 
and writes the following note to Carlos's father : 

" Dear Sir, 

" I find, upon inquiry, that your son 
will not answer our purpose. I regret very 
much, on his account, that it is so ; but we must 
have a boy who writes a good hand, who can 
spell correctly, and who thoroughly understands 
arithmetic and geography. As Carlos is par- 
ticularly deficient in all these respects, he can 
be of no service whatever in our store. 

" Yours respectfully, 

" B. M. 

"Boston, Jaa 1, 1851." 

The merchant then calls upon Henry's father 
and says to him, 

" I have come to inquire if we can get your 
son to be a clerk in our store. We want a 
good boy, and are disposed to do well by him. 
There are enough boys to be had, such as they 
are ; but I have been to the school, and have 
received such an account of Henry that I am 
satisfied that he is just such a boy as we need." 

The father replies, " There is no situation I 
can think of, that I should prefer for my son, to 
that you now offer him. But I feel rather re- 



254 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

luctant to take him from school just now. He 
is very much interested in his studies, and is, I 
believe, making rapid progress. And yet the 
situation which you offer him is so very de- 
sirable a one, that I feel much hesitation in de- 
clining it." 

" We find no difficulty," continues the mer- 
chant, " in getting a boy. There are hundreds 
to be had. But a really good boy is one of the 
most scarce articles in the market. I am satis- 
fied that your son Henry will make a first-rate 
man. He is the very person we want. And 
though there are many gentlemen who would 
be glad to put their sons into our store without 
any compensation, we will give your son his 
board. And I will take special pains that he 
may have some time for his studies. In a few 
years I shall wish to retire from active business, 
and if Henry continues faithful, as I doubt not 
he will, we shall be very glad then to take him 
in as a partner." 

Henry goes into the store an active, re- 
spected, happy boy. Carlos continues to mope 
and doze over his books at school, eating apples 
behind his desk, cutting fly-cages, and throwing 
paper balls. 

A few years pass away, and Henry becomes 
an honorable and influential merchant. He 



STUDY. 



255 



sees a ragged handcartman in the street, and 
gives him a shilling to carry a package of goods 
to the wharf. The voice of the handcartman 
sounds familiar to him, and as he looks him in 




THE HANDCARTMAN. 



the face, he detects the features of idle, lazy- 
Carlos. 

This is the tendency of idleness and industry, 
the world over. He who is neglecting his stud- 
ies at school, is putting a clog upon himself 
which will fetter him as long as he lives. 



256 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

Every day that he is idle, every hour in which 
he is indolent, is exerting an influence to retard 
his prosperity through the whole of his life. It 
matters not in what business he may afterward 
engage — the idle school- boy will always have 
occasion, in manhood, to regret his wasted 
time. 

If you are idle in your youth and afterward 
enter one of the learned professions, as a clergy- 
man, a lawyer, a physician, you can never re- 
gain the hours lost in school. You will always 
be less respected and less successful than you 
otherwise would have been. If you become a 
merchant, you will have a weaker mind, and a 
more feeble judgment. Your standing in the 
mercantile community will be lower than it 
would have been, had you improved the period 
of your youth. If you become a farmer, you 
will find yourself less qualified to understand 
and appreciate improvements made in agricul- 
tural science ; your land will be more poorly 
tilled, and your influence over the schools and 
in the general business of the town will be di- 
minished in consequence of the misimprove- 
ment of your school-boy days. 

Youth is the time for study. We have then 
nothing else to do but to learn. But in after- 
life there are ten thousand cares and duties 



STUDY. 5257 

pressing upon us, which render it almost impos- 
sible to repair the injury of a neglected educa- 
tion. If you, therefore, would be a useful man, 
you must be a studious boy. If you would be 
successful and happy in the business of life, you 
must improve your time in school. 

Consider for a moment the consequence of 
neglecting the one study of arithmetic. Every 
day, perhaps, in after-life, you will have money 
becoming due to you or from you, requiring a 
payment to be made. Even in your own pri- 
vate concerns, your accounts will be much in- 
volved, and it will require no inconsiderable 
expertness at figures to do justice to others and 
save yourself from loss. Every load of wood 
that you buy ; every pound of flour, or sugar, 
or meat you purchase, will put to the test your 
powers as an arithmetician. If you enter into 
employment in a store, or in a bank ; in a stage- 
office, or at a railroad station ; if you become 
a mechanic or a farmer : whatever in a word 
your occupation may be, you will continually 
have occasion for a skillful use of figures. And 
if you do not now, every day, study diligently 
in school, and try to become a good scholar, 
you will have cause to regret it as long as you 
live. 

And so it is with every other study that you 
p 



258 THE CHILD AT HOME. 



pursue at school — with writing, reading, spell- 
ing, geography, and grammar. Are you willing, 
when you become a man, to write such a mis- 
erable hand, that hardly any one can read it, 
and that the person to whom you write shall 
laugh at your ignorance, as he finds half the 
words misspelled ? Are you willing to be so 
ignorant of grammar, that, when you talk with 
well-instructed men, they shall see that you are 
a poor ignorant creature, and do not know how 
to talk, even in your own language ? Are you 
willing to be so ignorant of geography, as to 
know almost nothing about this world in which 
you dwell, and to expose yourself to the ridicule 
of doing something as preposterous as sending 
a cargo of skates to the West Indies, or warm- 
ing pans to Ceylon, or furs to the North- West 
coast ? 

And do not think that it will require less self- 
denial hereafter, to resist indolence and the 
love of play, than it now does. If you now ac- 
quire habits of idleness, it will be almost impos- 
sible to overcome them. Your future success 
in life depends very much upon the habits of 
study you now acquire. 

And besides, the time you can have for con- 
stant study is very rapidly passing away. Soon 
your time will be all occupied by business, and 



STUDY. 259 



your mind filled with the perplexities and cares 
of life. When you awake in the morning, you 
must go immediately to the toil of the day. 
And you will return home at night, so exhausted 
with labor, that it will be almost impossible for 
you to apply your mind to study. If you are 
ever to know any thing about arithmetic, gram- 
mar, writing, and geography, now is your time 
to learn. If you do not wish to be an ignorant 
man — so ignorant that you can have no influ- 
ence over your fellow-men — so ignorant as to 
have all situations of profit and respectability 
shut against you, you must diligently improve 
your time now. 

Again, I beg you to consider, what business 
can an ignorant man do ? He can dig clams ; 
he can shovel mud from the docks, or dig rail- 
roads and canals ; he can be a common sailor, 
clothed in rags and daubed with tar, and spend 
his life in the dirty forecastle of a ship. 

Are you willing to live so, with no refined 
friends, with no pleasant home, and cheerful 
fireside ? Are you willing to live a ragged and 
houseless wanderer, with none to love you, or 
care for you? But so, in all probability, you 
must live, if you pass your youth in idleness. 
There is no post of respectability, or of profit, 
to which vou can attain without education. If 



260 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

you would be the captain of a ship, or a clerk 
in a counting-room, or an engineer upon a rail- 
road, or a skillful mechanic, or a respectable 
farmer, you must have learning. And the bet- 
ter your education, the better you will be pre- 
pared to discharge any of these duties. 

About twenty years ago, there was a boy in 
school, whose name I will call Harlo. He was 
twelve years old. He had naturally a good 
mind, and might have made a good scholar. 
But he was idle in the extreme. Sometimes 
you would see him asleep in school, and some- 
times in mischief, trying to disturb the studies 
of others. If you looked into his desk, you 
would find it all in disorder, and the bottom 
covered with acorn shells. He would spend 
more time in school in catching flies, and cut- 
ting out cages for them, than in all his studies. 
His instructor did every thing in his power to 
induce him to study, but all in vain. 

This idle boy used to say, that he cared noth- 
ing about his books, for he intended to be a 
sailor, and it was not necessary for a sailor to 
be a scholar. 

A few years passed rapidly away, and the 
time came for him to leave school. He had 
learned nothing. In fact, he had done w r orse 
than learn nothing, for he had acquired such 



STUDY. 



261 



habits of idleness, and thus had so enfeebled 
the energies of his mind, that it would be hardly 
possible for him in after-life to change them. 

His father, seeing that he was throwing away 
his time, and that he was deriving no possible 
advantage from going to school, took him away, 
and obtained a situation for him as a cabin-boy, 
on board a coasting vessel. Here poor Harlo 
had hard times. He had to sweep the cabin, 
and be a waiter for the cook, and run at the 
bidding of every 
sailor on board. 
He had the poor- 
est food to eat, and 
the unfeeling sailors 
would often drive 
him about, accom- 
panied with oaths 
and blows. They 
would make him 
climb the shrouds, 
and, when he was 
almost terrified to 
death, with fear of THE SAILOR - BOY - 

falling from the giddy height, they would shake 
the shrouds, and shout, in cruel and boisterous 
laughter, at his terror. 

Poor Harlo had no bed to sleep upon. 




mm 



262 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

When night came, he wrapped himself in an 
old blanket, and lay down in his berth in the 
close and smoky cabin. Frequently, as he 
thought of home and contrasted the comforts 
which he enjoyed there with his present hard 
lot, he cried himself to sleep. But there poor 
Harlo was. There seemed to be no help for 
him. He could not get into any other business, 
because he was so ignorant. After going to 
sea several years, as a common sailor, and find- 
ing that he had not enough education to rise 
from that low condition, he thought that he 
would go to school again, and study arithmetic 
and navigation. He was then more than 
twenty years old, a full-grown man. But he 
found that he had so long indulged himself in 
indolence, that he could not apply his mind ; 
and, after a month or two of unavailing effort, 
he gave up in despair, and returned to face the 
storms and tempests of the ocean, " before the 
mast." O, how bitterly did he lament that he 
did not improve his school-boy days! for in 
that case he might have become the captain of 
a ship, instead of being a poor sailor, and might 
have acquired property so as to have a pleasant 
home on shore. But now he must probably 
work hard, and be poor till he dies, and then 
be buried in the ocean. 






STUDY. 263 



Thus His being idle during the few years he 
went to school, is the occasion of poverty and 
sorrow during his whole life. 

You, my young reader, are now enjoying the 
rich privileges of your school-boy days. Your 
parents or friends are making great efforts to 
give you the best advantages, that you may be 
well instructed, and thus be prepared for future 
usefulness and happiness. Your teachers are 
doing every thing in their power, to secure your 
progress in your studies. You sometimes speak 
unkindly of your teachers, and think they deal 
hardly with you, because they insist upon your 
studying diligently and committing your les- 
sons well. They do this because they love you, 
and wish to see you hereafter respected and 
happy. They know that if you are idle now, 
it will be a terrible calamity to you till you die. 

You should ever remember too that your teach- 
er is one of your best friends and benefactors. 
You should always speak of him with respect 
and affection. And if you will resolve to im- 
prove diligently your time, to resist the temp- 
tation which idle boys will hold out to you, your 
hours will glide away pleasantly in school, you 
will daily increase in knowledge, and as long as 
you live, you will rejoice that you were a stu- 
dious school-boy. 



CHAPTER X. 

TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 

Let us now consider some of the particular 
traits of character that good children ought to 
endeavor to acquire. 

1. Forgiveness. — We say in the Lord's Prayer, 
Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. 
We thus pray that God will exercise the same 
kind of forgiveness toward us, which we exer- 
cise toward others. Consequently, if we are 
unforgiving or revengeful, we pray that God 
will treat us in the same way when we appear 
before him in judgment. Thus God teaches 
the necessity of cultivating a forbearing and a 
forgiving spirit. We must do this or we can 
not be Christians. 

When I was a boy, there was another little 
boy who went to the same school with me, who 
was a professed Christian. He seemed to love 
the Savior, and to try in all things to abstain 
from sin. Some of the bad boys were in the 
habit of ridiculing him, and of doing every tiling 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 



265 



they could to tease him, because he would not 
join with them in mischief. Near the school- 
house there was a small orchard ; and the 
scholars would, without the leave of the owner, 
take the apples. One day a party of boys were 
going into the orchard for fruit, and called upon 
this pious boy to accompany them. 




THE ORCHARD. 



" Come, Henry," said one of them to him, 
let us go and get some apples." 



266 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

" The apples are not ours," he fearlessly re- 
plied, " and I do not think it right to steal." 

"You are a coward, and afraid to go," the 
other replied. 

" I am afraid," said Henry, " to do wrong, 
and you ought to be ; but I am not afraid to do 
right." 

This wicked boy was exceedingly irritated at 
this rebuke, and called Henry all manner of 
names, and endeavored to hold him up to the 
ridicule of the whole school. 

Henry bore it very patiently, though it was 
hard to be endured, for the boy who ridiculed 
him had a great deal of influence and talent. 

Some days after this the boys were going 
a-fishing. Henry had a beautiful fishing-rod, 
which his father had bought for him. 

George — for by that name I shall call the boy 
who abused Henry — was very desirous of bor- 
rowing this fishing-rod, and yet was ashamed 
to ask for it. At last, however, he summoned 
courage, and called out to Henry upon the play- 
ground — 

; ' Henry, will you lend me your rod to go 
a-fishing ?" 

" O yes," said Henry ; " if you will go home 
with me, I will get it for you now." 

Poor George felt ashamed enough for what 






TRAITS OF CHARACTER 267 

he had done. But he went home with Henry 
to get the rod. 

They went up into the barn together, and 
when Henry had taken his fishing-tackle from 
the place in which he kept it, he said to George, 
" I have a new line in the house, which father 
bought me the other day ; you may have that 
too, if you want it." George could hardly hold 
up his head, he felt so ashamed. However, 
Henry went and got the new line, and placed it 
upon the rod, and gave them into George's hand. 

A few days after this, George told me about 
it. " Why," said he, " I never felt so ashamed 
in my life. And one thing is certain, I will 
never call Henry hard names again." 

Now, who does not admire the conduct of 
Henry in this affair ? This forgiving spirit is 
what God requires. The child who would be 
the friend of God, must possess this spirit. 
You must always be ready to forgive. You 
must never indulge in the feelings of revenge. 
You must never desire to injure another, how 
much soever you may feel that others have in- 
jured you. The spirit of the Christian is a for- 
giving spirit. 

2. Doing Good. God also requires of his 
friends that they shall ever be employed doing 



268 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

good, as they have opportunity. The Christian 
child will do all in his power to make those 
happy who are about him. He will disregard 
himself that he may promote the happiness of 
others. He will be obliging to all. 

This world is not your home. You are to 
remain here but a few years, and then go to 
that home of joy or woe, which you never, 
never will leave. God expects you to be use- 
ful here. " How can I do any good ?" do you 
say ? Why, in many ways. You can make 
your parents happy ; that is doing good. You 
can make your brothers and sisters happy ; that 
is doing good. You can try to make your 
brothers and sisters more obedient to their 
parents; that is doing good. You can set a 
good example at school; that is doing good. 
If you see your companions doing any thing 
that is wrong, you can try to dissuade them. 
You can speak to your friend upon the Savior's 
goodness, and endeavor to excite in his heart 
the feelings which are in yours. Thus you 
may be exerting a good influence upon all 
around you. Your life will not be spent in 
vain. God will smile upon you, and give joy 
in a dying hour. 

3. Cheerfulness. Some children appear to 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 269 

think that if they are Christians, they can not 
be so happy as they may be if they are not 
Christians. They think that to love God, and 
to pray, and to do their duty, is gloomy work. 
But God tells us that none can be happy but 
those who love him. And every one who has 
repented of sin, and loves the Savior, says that 
there is more happiness in this mode of life than 
in any other. We may indeed be happy a little 
while without piety. But misfortunes and sor- 
rows will come. Your hopes of pleasure will 
be disappointed. You will be called to weep ; 
to suffer pain ; to die. And there is nothing 
but religion which can give you a happy life 
and a peaceful death. It is that you may be 
happy, not unhappy, that God wishes you to be 
a Christian. 

It is true that at times it requires a very great 
struggle to take a decided stand as a Christian. 
The proud heart is reluctant to yield. The 
worldly spirit clings to worldly pleasure. It re- 
quires bravery and resolution to meet the ob- 
stacles which will be thrown in your way. You ■ 
may be opposed. You may be ridiculed. But, 
notwithstanding all this, the only way to insure 
happiness is to love and serve your Maker. 
Many children know that they ought to love 
God, and wish that they had resolution to do 



270 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

their duty. But they are afraid of the ridicule 
of their companions. Henry, who would not 
rob the orchard, was a brave boy. He knew 
that the others would laugh at him. But what 
did he care for that ? He determined to do his 
duty without being frightened if others did 
laugh. And the consciousness of doing his 
duty afforded him much greater enjoyment than 
he could possibly have received from eating the 
stolen fruit. 

Others of the boys went and robbed the or- 
chard, because they had not courage to refuse 
to do as their companions did. They knew 
that it was wrong, but they were afraid of be- 
ing laughed at. But which is the most easy to 
be borne, the ridicule of the wicked, or a con- 
demning conscience, and the displeasure of 
God ? It is so with all the duties of the Chris- 
tian. If you will conscientiously do that which 
God approves, he will give you peace of mind, 
and prepare you for eternal joy. 

One of the most eminent and useful of the 
English clergymen was led, when a child, by 
the following interesting circumstance, to sur- 
render himself to the Savior. When a little 
boy, he was, like other children, playful and 
thoughtless. He thought, perhaps, that he 
would wait until he was old, before he became 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 271 

a Christian. His father was a pious man, and 
frequently conversed with him about heaven, 
and urged him to prepare to die. 

On the evening of his birth-day, when he was 
ten years of age, his father took him affection- 
ately by the hand, and reminding him of the , 
.scenes through which he had already passed, 
urged him to commence that evening a life of 
piety. He told him of the love of Jesus. He 
told him of the danger of delay. And he 
showed him that he must perish forever unless 
he speedily trusted in the Savior, and gave his 
life to his service. As this child thought of a 
dying hour, and of a Savior's love, his heart 
was full of feeling, and the tears gushed into 
his eyes. He felt that it was time for him to 
choose whether he would live for God or for 
the world. He resolved that he would no 
longer delay. 

His father and mother then retired to their 
chamber to pray for their child, and this child 
also went to his chamber to pray for himself. 
Sincerely he gave himself to the Savior. 
Earnestly he implored forgiveness, and most 
fervently entreated God to aid him to keep his 
resolutions and to refrain from sin. And do 
you think that child was not happy, as, in the 
silence of his chamber, he surrendered himself 



272 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

to God ? It was undoubtedly the hour of the 
purest enjoyment he ever had experienced. 
Angels looked with joy upon that evening scene, 
and hovered with delight and love around that 
penitent child. The prayers of the parent and 
the child ascended as grateful incense to the 
throne, and were accepted. 

From that hour, this boy went on in the path 
which leads to usefulness, and peace, and 
heaven. He spent his life in doing good. A 
short time since, he died a veteran soldier of 
the cross, and is now undoubtedly amid the 
glories of heaven, surrounded by hundreds, who 
have been, by his instrumentality, led to those 
green fields and loved mansions. Oh, what a 
rapturous meeting must that have been, when 
the parents of this child pressed forward from 
the angel throng, to welcome him, as, with tri- 
umphant wing, he entered heaven ! And, oh, 
how happy must they now be, in that home of 
songs and everlasting joy ! 

It is thus that piety promotes our enjoyment. 
It promotes our happiness at all times. It takes 
away the fear of death, and deprives every sor- 
row of half its bitterness. Death is the most 
gloomy thought that can enter the minds of 
those who are not Christians. But the pious 
child can be happy even when dying. I was 






TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 273 

once called to see a boy who was very danger- 
ously sick, and expected soon to die. I expect- 
ed to have found him sorrowful. But, instead 
of that, a happy smile was on his countenance, 
which showed that joy was in his heart. He 
sat in bed, leaning upon his pillow, with a hymn- 
book in his hand, which he was reading. His 
cheeks were thin and pale, from his long sick- 
ness, while at the same time, he appeared con- 
tented and happy. After conversing with him 
a little while, I said, 

"Do you think you shall ever get well 
again ?" 

" No, sir," he cheerfully replied, " the doctor 
says I may perhaps live a few weeks, but that 
he should not be surprised if 1 should die at any 
time." 

" Are you willing to die ?" I said. 

" O yes, sir," he answered ; " sometimes I feel 
sad about leaving father and mother. But then 
I think I shall be free from sin in heaven, and 
shall be with the Savior. And I hope that 
father and mother will soon come to heaven, 
and I shall be with them then. I am sometimes 
afraid that I am too impatient to go." 

" What makes you think," I asked, "that you 
are prepared to die ?" 

He hesitated a moment, and then said, 



274 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

" Because Jesus Christ has said, Whosoever 
cometh to me I will in no wise cast out. I do 
think that I love the Savior, and I wish to go 
to him, and to be made holy." 

While talking with him, I heard some boys 
laughing and playing under the window. But 
this sick boy looked up to me and said, " Oh, 
how much more happy am I now, than I used 
to be when well and out at play, not thinking 
of God or heaven ! There is not a boy in the 
street so happy as I." 

This boy had for some time been endeavor- 
ing to do his duty as a Christian. His conduct 
showed that he loved the Savior. And when 
sickness came, and death was near, he was hap- 
py. But, oh, how sad must that child feel, who 
is dying in unrepented sin ! We all must cer- 
tainly soon die, and there is nothing to make us 
happy in death but piety. 

But when the Christian child goes to heaven, 
how happy must he be ! He rises above the 
clouds, and the blue sky, and the twinkling 
stars, till he enters the home of God and the an- 
gels. There he becomes an angel himself. God 
is his approving Father. Angels are his be- 
loved friends. You often, in a clear evening, 
look up upon the distant stars, and wonder who 
inhabits them. You think, if you had the wings 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 275 

of an eagle, you would love to fly up there, and 
make a visit. Now, it is not improbable that 
the Christian, in heaven, can pass from star to 
star, as you can go from house to house in your 
own neighborhood. The very thought is en- 
rapturing. 

If every hour of our lives were spent in sor- 
row, it would be nothing, compared with the 
joys which God has promised his friends at his 
right hand. When we think of the green pas- 
tures of heaven ; of the still waters of that hap- 
py world ; when we think of mingling with the 
angels in their flight ; of uniting our voices 
with theirs in songs of praise ; of gazing upon 
all the glories and sharing all the rapture of the 
heavenly world — O, how tame do the joys of 
earth appear ! 

4. Be mindful of the uncertainty of life. 
Some children think that they can put off be- 
coming Christians till a dying hour, and then 
repent and be saved. Even if you could do 
this, it would be at the loss of much usefulness 
and much happiness. But the fact is, you are 
never certain of a moment of life. You are 
little aware of the dangers to which you are 
continually exposed. 

" The rising morning can't assure, 
That we shall end the day ; 



276 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 



For death stands ready at the door, 
To snatch our lives away." 

We are reminded of the uncertainty of life, 
by the accidents which are every day occur- 
ring. Often, when we least suspect it, we are 
in the most imminent hazard of our lives. 
When I was a boy, I one day went a-gunning. 
I was to call for another boy, who lived at a 
little distance from my father's. Having load- 
ed my gun with a heavy charge of pigeon-shot, 
and put in a new flint, which would strike out 




TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 277 

a brilliant shower of sparks, I carefully primed 
the gun, and set out upon my expedition. 
When I arrived at the house of the boy who 
was to go with me, I leaned the gun against 
the side of the house, and waited a few mo- 
ments for him to get ready. About a rod from 
the door, where I was waiting, there was an- 
other house. A little girl stood upon the win- 
dow-seat, looking out of the window. Another 
boy came along, and, taking up the gun, not 
knowing that it was loaded and primed, took 
deliberate aim at the face of the girl, and pulled 
the trigger. But God, in mercy, caused the 
gun to miss fire. Had it gone off, the girl would 
have been killed. I never can think of the dan- 
ger she was in, even now, without trembling. 

The girl did not see the boy take aim at her, 
and does not now know how narrow was her 
escape from death. She little supposed that, 
when standing in perfect health by the window 
in her own father's house, she was in danger of 
dropping down dead upon the floor. We are 
all continually exposed to such dangers, and 
when we least suspect it, may be in the greatest 
peril. Is it not, then, folly to delay preparation 
for death ? You may die within one hour. 
You may not have one moment of warning al- 
lowed you. 



278 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

A few years ago, a boy was riding in the 
stage. It was a pleasant summer's day. The 
horses were trotting rapidly along by fields, and 
bridges, and orchards, and houses. The boy 
stood at the coach-window with a happy heart, 
and looked upon the green fields and pleasant 
dwellings ; upon the poultry in the farm-yards, 
and the cattle upon the hills. He had not the 
least idea that he should die that day. But 
while he was looking out of the window, the 
iron rim of the wheel broke, and struck him 
upon the forehead. The poor boy lay senseless 
for a few days, and then died. 

There are a thousand ways by which life 
may be suddenly extinguished, and yet how 
seldom are they thought of by children ! They 
almost always entirely forget the danger of early 
death, and postpone to a future day making 
their peace with God. And how little do those 
who read this book think that they may die 
suddenly! Many children when they go to bed 
at night, say the prayer, 

" Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep, 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take." 

I used to say this prayer, when a child, every 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 279 

night before I went to sleep. But I did nol 
know then, as well as I do now, that I might die 
before the morning. Almost every night some 
children go to bed well, and before morning are 
dead. It is, therefore, very dangerous to delay 
repentance. Love the Savior immediately, and 
prepare to die, and it will be of but little con- 
sequence when you die, for you will go to heav- 
en and be happy forever. 

But we must not forget that a most terrible 
doom awaits those who will not serve their 
Maker. It matters not how much we may be 
beloved by our friends; how r amiable maybe 
our feelings. This alone will not save us. We 
must repent of sin, and love the Savior, who 
has suffered for us. We must pass our lives 
in usefulness and prayer, or, when the day of 
judgment comes, we shall hear the sentence, 
"Depart from me, for I know you not." It is 
indeed a fearful thing to refuse affection and 
obedience to our Father in heaven. He will 
receive none into his happy family above, but 
those who love him. He will have no angry, 
disagreeable spirits there. He will receive none 
but the penitent, and the humble, and the grate- 
ful, to that pure and peaceful home. Who does 
not wish to go to heaven ! O, then, now begin 
to do your duty, and earnestly pray that God 



280 THE CHILI) AT HOME. 

will forgive your sins, and give you a heart to 
love and obey him. 

These thoughts must be often in your mind 
it is true, but still if you have really given your 
heart to God, they will not make you gloomy. 
You must not allow them to make you gloomy, 
for if your peace is made with God all will surely 
be well with you in the end, and you may there- 
fore be cheerful and happy every day. 

5. Be amiable and kind. Every child must 
observe how much more happy and beloved 
some children appear to be than others. There 
are some children you always love to be with. 
They are happy themselves, and they make you 
happy. There are others whose society you 
always avoid. The very expression of their 
countenances produces unpleasant feelings. 
They seem to have no friends. 

No person can be happy without friends. 
The heart is formed for love, and can not be 
happy without the opportunity of giving and re- 
ceiving affection. 

" It's not in titles, nor in rank, 
It's not in wealth like London bank, 

To make us truly blest. 
If happiness have not her seat 

And center in the breast, 
"We may be wise, or rich, or great, 

But never can be blest." 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 281 

But you can not be an object of affection from 
others, unless you feel affection for them in your 
turn. You can not find others to love you, unless 
you will also love them. Love is only to be ob- 
tained by giving love in return. Hence the 
importance of cultivating a kind and obliging 
disposition. You can not be happy without it. 
I have sometimes heard a girl say, 

11 I know that I am very unpopular at school. " 
Now, this is generally saying that she is very 
disobliging and unamiable in her disposition. 
If your companions do not love you, it is prob- 
ably your own fault. They can not help loving 
you if you will be kind and friendly. If you 
are not loved, it is good evidence that you do 
not deserve to be loved. It is true that a sense 
of duty may at times render it necessary for 
you to do that which is displeasing to your com- 
panions. But if it is seen that you have a noble 
spirit; that you are above selfishness ; that you 
are willing to make sacrifices of your own per- 
sonal convenience to promote the happiness of 
your associates, you will never be in want of 
friends. You must not regard it as your mis- 
fortune that others do not love you, but your 
fault. It is not beauty, it is not wealth, that 
will give you friends. Your heart must glow 
with kindness if you would attract to yourself 



282 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

the esteem and affection of those by whom you 
are surrounded. 

You are little aware how much the happiness 
of your whole life depends upon your cultiva- 
ting an affectionate and obliging disposition. 
If you will adopt the resolution that you will 
confer favors whenever you have an opportu- 
nity, you will certainly be surrounded by ar- 
dent friends. Begin upon this principle in 
childhood, and act upon it through life, and you 
will make yourself happy, and promote the hap- 
piness of all within your influence. 

You go to school, for example, in a cold win- 
ter morning. A bright fire is blazing upon the 
hearth, which is surrounded with boys strug- 
gling to get near it to warm themselves. After 
you get partly warmed, another schoolmate 
comes in suffering with the cold. 

" Here, James," you pleasantly call out to 
him, " I am warm ; you may have my place." 

As you slip one side to allow him to take 
your place at the fire, will he not feel that you 
are kind? The worst boy in the world can 
not help admiring such generosity. And even 
though he be so ungrateful as not to return the 
favor, you may depend upon it that he will be 
your friend, as far as he is capable of friend- 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 283 

ship. If you will habitually act upon this prin- 
ciple, you will never want for friends. 

Suppose some day you are out with your 
companions playing ball. After you have been 
playing for some time, another boy comes to 
the ground. He can not be chosen on either 
side ; for there is no one to match him. 

" Henry," you say, " you may take my place 
a little while, and I will rest." 

You throw yourself down upon the grass, 
while Henry, fresh and vigorous, takes your bat, 
and engages in the game. He knows that you 
gave up to accommodate him. And how can 
he help liking you for it? The fact is, that 
neither man nor child can cultivate such a 
spirit of generosity and kindness, without awa- 
kening affection and esteem. Look and see who 
of your companions have the most friends, and 
you will find that they are those who have this 
noble spirit ; who are willing to deny them- 
selves, that they may make their associates 
happy. This is not peculiar to childhood, but 
is the same in all periods of life. There is but 
one way to make friends, and that is by being 
friendly to others. 

Perhaps some child who reads this, feels con- 
scious of being disliked, and yet desires to have 
the affection of companions. You ask me 



284 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

what you shall do. I will tell you what. I 
will give you an infallible recipe. Do all in 
your power to make others happy. Be willing 
to make sacrifices of your own convenience, that 
you may promote the happiness of others. This 
is the way to make friends, and the only way. 
When you are playing with your brothers and 
sisters at home, be always ready to give them 
more than their share of privilege and enjoy- 
ment. Manifest an obliging disposition, and 
they can not but regard you with affection. In 
all your intercourse with others, at home or 
abroad, let these feelings influence you, and 
you will receive the rich reward of devoted 
friends. 

The very exercise of these feelings brings 
enjoyment. The benevolent man is a cheerful 
man. His family is happy. His home is the 
abode of the purest earthly joy. These feel- 
ings are worth cultivating, for they bring with 
them their own reward. Benevolence is the 
spirit of heaven. 



CHAPTER XI. 

TRAITS OF CHARACTER CONTINUED. 

There are several other traits of character, 
besides those pointed out in the last chapter, to 
which it is important to direct the reader's at- 
tention. 

1. Be good-natured. Persons of ardent dis- 
positions often find it exceedingly difficult to 
control themselves when vexed. Some little 
occurrence irritates them, and they speak has- 
tily and angrily. Offended with a companion, 
they will do things to give pain, instead of pleas- 
ure. You must have your temper under con- 
trol if you would exercise a friendly disposition. 
A bad temper is an infirmity, which, if not re- 
strained, will be continually growing worse and 
worse. 

There was a man, a few years since, tried 
for murder. When a boy, he gave loose to his 
passions. The least opposition would rouse his 
anger, and he made no efforts to subdue him- 
self. He had no one who could love him. If 



286 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

he was playing with others, he would every mo- 
ment be getting irritated. As he grew older, 
his passions increased, and he became so ill- 
natured that every one avoided him. One day 
as he was talking with another man, he be- 
came so enraged at some little provocation, 
that he seized a club, and with one blow laid the 
man lifeless at his feet. But while in prison 
the fury of a malignant and ungoverned spirit 
increased to such a degree that he became a 
maniac. It seemed as if the very fires of the 
world of woe were burning in his heart. 
Loaded with chains, and immured in a dark 
dungeon, he was doomed to pass the miserable 
remnant of his guilty life in wretchedness and 
despair, the victim of his ungovernable passion. 

This is a very unusual case. But nothing is 
more common than for a child to destroy his 
own peace, and to make his brothers and sisters 
continually unhappy by indulging in a peevish 
and irritable spirit. Nothing is more common 
than for a child to cherish this disposition until 
he becomes a man, and then by his peevishness 
and fault-finding, he destroys the happiness of 
all who are near him. His home is the scene 
of discord. His family are made wretched. 

An amiable disposition makes its possessor 
happy. And if you would have such a disposi- 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 287 

tion, you must learn to control yourself. If 
others injure you, obey the gospel rule, and do 
them good in return. If they revile you, speak 
kindly to them. It is far better to suffer injury 
than to inflict injury. If you will endeavor in 
childhood in this way to control your passions, 
to be always mild, and forbearing, and forgiving, 
you will disarm opposition, and, in many cases, 
convert enemies to friends. You will be be- 
loved by those around you, and when you have 
a home of your own, your cheerful and obliging 
spirit will make it a happy home. 

One thing you may be sure of. There can 
be no real happiness when there is not an 
amiable disposition. You can not more surely 
make yourself wretched, than by indulging in 
an irritable spirit. Love is the feeling which 
fills every angel's bosom ; and it is the feeling 
which should fill every human heart. It is love 
which will raise us to the angel's throne. It is 
malice which will sink us to the demon's dun- 
geon. I hope that every child who reads this, 
will be persuaded, by these remarks, immedi- 
ately to commence the government of his tem- 
per. Resolve that you never will be angry. If 
your brother or your sister does any thing 
which has a tendency to provoke you, restrain 
your feelings, and speak mildly and softly. Let 



288 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

no provocation draw from you an angry or an 
unkind word. If you will commence in this 
way, and persevere, you will soon get that con- 
trol over yourself that will contribute greatly to 
your happiness. Your friends will increase, 
and you will be prepared for far more extensive 
usefulness in the world. 

And is there not something noble in being 
able to be always good-natured, calm, and 
pleasant ? I once saw two men conversing in 
the streets. One became very unreasonably 
enraged with the other. In the fury of his 
anger, he appeared like a madman. He ad- 
dressed the other in language the most abusive 
and insulting. The gentleman whom he thus 
abused, with a pleasant countenance and a calm 
voice, said to him, " Now, my friend, you will 
be sorry for all this when your passion is over. 
This language does me no harm, and can do 
you no good.'' 

Now is it not really magnanimous to have 
such a spirit ? Every person who witnessed 
this interview despised the angry man, and re- 
spected the one who was so calm and self-pos- 
sessed. 

2. Humility. Humility is another very im- 
portant trait of character, which should be cul- 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 289 

tivated in early life. What can be more dis- 
gusting than the ridiculous airs of a vain child ? 
Sometimes you will see a foolish girl tossing her 
head about, and walking with a mincing step, 
which shows you at once that she is excessively 
vain. She thinks that others are admiring her, 
when the fact is, they are laughing at her ri- 
diculous airs, and despising her. Every one 
speaks of her as a very simple, vain girl. 

Vanity is a sure sign of weakness of mind ; 
and if you indulge in so contemptible a passion, 
you will surely be the subject of ridicule and 
contempt. 

A young lady was once passing an afternoon 
at the house of a friend. As she, with one or two 
gentlemen and ladies, was walking in the gar- 
den, she began to make a display of her fancied 
learning. She would look at a flower, and with 
great self-sufficiency talk of its botanical char- 
acteristics. She thought that the company 
were all wondering at the extent of her knowl- 
edge, when they were all laughing at her, as a 
self-conceited girl who had not sense enough to 
keep herself from appearing ridiculous. The 
gentlemen were casting glances at each other, 
and slyly laughing as she uttered one learned 
word after another, with an affected air of fa- 
miliarity with scientific terms. 

T 



290 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

During the walk, she took occasion to bring 
in all the little that she knew, and at one time 
ventured to quote Latin for their edification. 
She thought she had produced quite an impres- 
sion upon their minds. And, in truth, she had. 
She had fixed indelibly the impression that she 
was an insufferably weak and self-conceited 
girl. She made herself the laughing-stock of 
the whole company. The moment that she 
was gone, there was one general burst of laugh- 
ter. And not one of those gentlemen or ladies 
could ever think of that vain girl afterward, 
without emotions of contempt. 

This is the invariable effect of vanity. You 
can not so disguise it, but that it will be de- 
tected, and cover you with disgrace. There is 
no foible more common than this, and there is 
none more supremely ridiculous. 

One boy happens to have rich parents, and 
he acts as if he supposed that there was some 
virtue in his father's money which pertained to 
him. He goes to school and struts about, as 
though he were lord of the play-ground. Now, 
every body who sees this, says, it is a proof that 
the boy has not much mind. He is a simple 
boy. If he had good sense he would perceive 
that others of his playmates, in many qualities 
surpassed him, and that it became him to be 



TRAITS OP CHARACTER. 291 

humble and unostentatious. The mind that is 
truly great is humble. 

We dislike vanity wherever it appears. Go 
into a school-room, and look around upon the 
appearance of the various pupils assembled 
there. You will perhaps see one girl, with* 
head inclined toward one shoulder, and with a 
simpering countenance, trying to look pretty. 
You speak to her. Instead of receiviug a plain, 
kind, honest answer, she replies with voice, and 
language, and attitude full of affectation. She 
thinks that she is exciting your admiration. 
But. on the contrary, she is exciting disgust 
and loathing. 

You see another girl, whose frank and open 
countenance proclaims a sincere and honest 
heart. All her movements are natural. She 
manifests no desire to attract attention. The 
idea of her own superiority seems not to enter 
her mind. As, in the recess, she walks about 
the school-room, you can detect no airs of self- 
conceit. She is kind and attentive to all her 
associates. You ask her some question. She 
answers you with modesty and without osten- 
tation. Now, this girl, without any effort to 
attract admiration, is beloved and admired. 
Every one sees at once that she is a girl of good 
sense. She knows too much to be vain. She 



292 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

will never want for friends. This is the kind 
of character which insures usefulness and hap- 
piness. 

A little girl who had rich parents, and was 
handsome in personal appearance, was very 
vain of her beauty and of her father's wealth. 
She disgusted all her school-mates by her con- 
ceit. And though she seemed to think that 
every one ought to admire her, she was beloved 
by none. She at last left school, a vain, con- 
ceited girl. A young man, who was so simple 
as to fall in love with this piece of pride and 
affectation, at length married her. For a few 
years, the property which she received from 
her father supported them. But soon her father 
died, and her husband grew dissipated, and be- 
fore long their property was all squandered. 

She had no friends to whom she could look 
for assistance, and she and her husband were 
every month sinking deeper and deeper in pov- 
erty. Her husband fell into bad habits, and at 
i last became a perfect sot, and staggered through 
the streets in the lowest state of degradation. 
At length he died, and she was left with one or 
two small children, and without any means of 
support. In a most miserable hovel this poor 
woman was compelled to take up her residence. 
By this time her pride had experienced a fall 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 293 

She no longer exhibited the airs of a vain girl, 
but was an afflicted and helpless woman. 

The sorrow and disgrace into which she was 
plunged by the intemperance and death of her 
husband, preyed so deeply upon her feelings as 
to destroy her health, and in this condition she- 
was carried to the poor-house. There she lin- 
gered out the last few years of her sad earthly 
existence. What a termination of life for a 
vain and haughty girl ! And what a lesson is 
this to all, to be humble and unassuming ! You 
may be in health to-day, and in sickness to- 
morrow. This year you may be rich, and have 
need of nothing, and the next year you may be 
in the most abject poverty. Your early home 
may be one of luxury and elegance, and in your 
dying hour you may be in the poor-house, with- 
out a friend to watch at your bedside. Is it 
not, then, the height of folly to indulge in 
vanity ? 

If any child will look around upon his own 
companions, he will see that those are most be- 
loved and respected who have no disposition to 
claim superiority over their associates. How 
pleasant is it to be in company with those who 
are conciliating and unassuming ! But how 
much is every one disgusted with the presence 
of those who assume airs of importance, and 



294 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

are continually saying, by their conduct, that 
they think themselves deserving particular at- 
tention ! Xo one regrets to see such self-con- 
ceit humbled. When such persons meet with 
misfortune, no one appears to regret it, no one 
sympathizes with them. 

You must guard against this contemptible 
vice, if you would be useful, or respected, or 
happy. If you would avoid exciting disgust, 
avoid vanity. If you do not wish to be the 
laughing-stock of all your acquaintance, do not 
let them detect in you consequential airs. If 
you would not be an object of hatred and dis- 
like, beware how you indulge feelings of fancied 
superiority. Be plain, and sincere, and honest- 
hearted. Disgrace not yourself by affectation 
and pride. Let all your words and all your ac- 
tions show that you think no more highly of 
yourself than you ought to think. Then will 
others love you. They will rejoice at your 
prosperity. And they will be glad to see you 
rising in the world, in usefulness and esteem. 

3. Moral Courage. Moral courage is a trait 
of character of the utmost importance to be pos- 
sessed. A man was once challenged to fight a 
duel. As he thought of his own condition if he 
should kill his adversary, and of his widowed 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 295 

wife and orphan children, if he should be shot 
himself — as he thought of his appearance before 
the bar of God to answer for the atrocious sin, 
he shrunk from accepting the challenge. But 
when he thought of the ridicule to which he 
would be exposed if he declined ; that others 
would call him a coward, and point at him the 
finger of scorn, he was afraid to refuse. He 
was such a coward that he did not dare to meet 
the ridicule of contemptible men. He had so 
little moral courage, that he had rather become 
a murderer, or expose himself to be shot, than 
boldly to disregard the opinions and the sneers 
of the unprincipled and base. It is this want of 
moral courage which very frequently leads per- 
sons to the commission of crimes. 

There is nothing so hard to be borne as 
ridicule. It requires a bold heart to be ready 
to do one's duty, unmoved by the sneers of 
others. How often does a child do that which 
he knows to be wrong, because he is afraid 
that others will call him a coward if he does 
right ! 

The following example shows that a boy 
may do wrong simply because he is too great a 
coward to do right. 

One cold winter's day, three boys were pass- 
ing by a school-house. The oldest was a mis- 



2yo 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 




uiacEise 



chievous fellow, al- 
ways in trouble 
himself, and try- 
ing to get others 
into trouble. The 
youngest, whose 
name w r as George, 
was a very amia- 
ble boy, who wish- 
ed to do right, but 
was very deficient 
in moral courage. 
We will call the 
oldest Henry, and 
the other of the three James. The following 
dialogue passed between them. 

Henry. — What fun it would be to throw a 
snow-ball against the school-room door, and 
make the teacher and scholars all jump ! 

James. — You would jump if you should. If 
the teacher did not catch you, he would tell 
your father, and you would get a whipping then, 
that would make you jump higher than the 
scholars, I think. 

Henry. — Why, we could get so far off, before 
the teacher could come to the door, that he 
could not tell who we are. Here is a snow- 






TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 297 

ball as hard as ice, and George had as lief 
throw it against that door as not. 

James. — Give it to him and see. He would 
not dare to throw it against the door. 

Henry. — Do you think George is a coward ? 
You don't know him as well as I do. Here, 
George, take this snow-ball, and show James 
that you are not such a coward as he thinks 
you to be. 

George. — I am not afraid to throw it. But I 
do not wish to. I do not see that it will do 
any good, or that there will be any fun in it. 

James. — There, I told you he would not dare 
to throw it. 

Henry. — Why, George, are you turning cow- 
ard ? I thought you did not fear any thing. 
We shall have to call you chicken-hearted. 
Come, save your credit, and throw it. I know 
you are not afraid to. 

George. — Well, I am not afraid to. Give 
me the snow-ball. I had as lief throw it as 
not. 

George took the snow-ball and threw it 
against the door ; and the boys ran. Henry 
was laughing as heartily as he could to think 
what a fool he had made of George. George 
afterward got punished for his folly, as he richly 
deserved. He was such a coward that he was 



298 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

afraid of being called a coward. He did not 
dare to refuse to do as Henry told him to do, for 
fear that he would be laughed at. If he had 
been really a brave boy., he would have said, 

" Henry, do you suppose that I am such a 
fool as to throw that snow-ball just because you 
wish to have me do it ? You may throw your 
own snow-balls, if you please." 

Henry would perhaps, in this case, have tried 
to laugh at him. He would have called him a 
coward, hoping in this way to induce him to 
obey his wishes. But George would have re- 
plied, 

" Do you think that I care for your laughing ? 
I do not think it is right to throw a snow- ball 
against the school-room door. And I will not 
do that which I think to be wrong if the whole 
town join with you in laughing." 

This would have been real moral courage. 
Henry would have seen at once, that it would 
do no good to laugh at a boy who had so bold 
a heart. And you must have this fearlessness 
of spirit, or you will be continually involved in 
trouble, and will deserve and receive contempt. 

I once knew a man who had so little inde- 
pendence, that he hardly dared express an 
opinion different from that of those who for 
the time being happened to be with him. When 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 299 

he was talking upon politics, he would agree 
with the persons with whom he happened to be 
conversing, no matter what their views, or what 
their party. He was equally fickle and unde- 
cided upon the subject of religion, differing 
from none, and agreeing with all. The conse- 
quence was, that he had the confidence of none 
and the contempt of all. He sunk into merited 
disgrace in the estimation of the whole com- 
munity. 

You must have an opinion of your own. 
And you must be ready, frankly and modestly, 
to express it, when occasion requires, without 
being intimidated by fear of censure. You 
can neither command respect nor be useful 
without it. 

In things which concern your own personal 
convenience merely, you should be as yielding 
as the air. But where duty is concerned, you 
should be as firm and as unyielding as the rock. 
Be ever ready to sacrifice your own comfort to 
promote the comfort of others. Be concilia- 
ting and obliging in all your feelings and ac- 
tions. Show that you are ready to do every 
thing in your power to make those around you 
happy. Let no one have occasion to say that 
you are stubborn and unaccommodating. 

But, on the other hand, where duty is in- 



300 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

volved, let nothing tempt you to do wrong. 
Be bold enough to dare to do right, whatever 
may be the consequences. If others laugh at 
your scruples, let them laugh as long as they 
please. And let them see that you are not to 
be frightened by their sneers. Your courage 
will often be tried. There will be occasions in 
which it will require a severe struggle to pre- 
serve your integrity. But ever remember that 
if you would do any good in the world, you 
must possess this moral courage. It is the want 
of this that leaves thousands to live in a way 
which their consciences reprove, and to die in 
despair. Unless you possess this trait of char- 
acter, to some considerable degree, it can hard- 
ly be expected that you will ever become a 
Christian. You must learn to act for yourself, 
unintimidated by the censure, and unmoved by 
the flattery of others. 

4. Pure language. Boys can not be too care- 
ful to avoid in early life forming bad habits in 
respect to their language. Nothing is more un- 
gentlemanly than profaneness or indelicacy in 
speech. 

When the American army were at their 
winter quarters in New Jersey, during the 
revolutionary war, General Washington one 
day invited his officers to dine with him. The 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 301 

use of profane language was then very common 
in the army. One of the guests uttered at the 
table a profane expression. Washington sud- 
denly laid upon the table his knife and fork, in 
such a way as to attract the attention of every 
guest, and, raising his hands, exclaimed, "I.. 
really thought that I had invited none but gen- 
tlemen to dine with me." The reproof was 
deeply felt, and exerted a very powerful influ- 
ence in checking that vulgar and despicable 
vice. 

How low and degrading is the vice of profane 
swearing! It is the language of pirates, of 
drunkards, of all the loathsome and the vile. 
The use of it always degrades one in the esti- 
mation of every person whose good opinion is 
worth having. 

And how solemn is the thought that every 
sinful word is recorded in the book of God's 
remembrance ! The day of judgment is fast 
approaching. For every idle word an account 
must be rendered to God. And no one in 
Christian lands can plead ignorance of his 
command, " Swear not at all." 

Sometimes, as I have heard boys in the 
streets uttering the most awful oaths, it has al- 
most made me tremble. I have thought, God 
heard that oath. He will never forget it. That 



302 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

boy must yet answer for the dreadful sin, at the 
judgment-seat, in the presence of all angels and 
all men. O, how bitterly will he then lament, 
that he ever indulged in such sinful practices ! 
And as he hears the doom, " Depart, ye cursed, 
into everlasting fire," how agonizing will be his 
reproaches of himself, for disobeying God's 
known commands ! 

There is hardly any practice into which a boy 
can fall, so utterly ruinous to him, as the use of 
profane language. It seems to destroy all the 
fine sensibilities, all the best affections, all mag- 
nanimous feelings. Such a boy always looks 
mean and ashamed. He knows that he is do- 
ing something which is wrong, something which 
he is afraid to have his friends know, and con- 
sequently he loses all that frankness and ingen- 
uousness which is the great charm of a virtuous 
youth. 

This vice seems to lead to every other. It 
so deadens conscience, and makes one so reck- 
less of every thing that is delicate and high- 
minded, that the profane boy is almost sure to 
grow up a profligate man. He will superadd 
all other vices to this ; and drinking, and gam- 
bling, and every species of dissipation, will fill 
up the awful catalogue of his crimes. 

The influence of this wicked practice is so 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 



destructive of every thing estimable in charac- 
ter, that I think a boy who is in the habit of 
profaneness should be expelled from school 
without a moment's hesitancy. He ought to 
be banished from the play-ground, and from the 
society of every virtuous boy. God looks upon 
him with displeasure. And he is contaminating 
every one who associates with him. 

I remember very well the first oath which 
was uttered by an early friend of mine, in his 
boyish days. He trembled after he had uttered 
it, and I was shocked beyond measure. It was 
not, however, his last oath. Having thus com- 
menced, he soon acquired the habit, and before 
long he could utter the most awful impreca- 
tions, with the volubility and hardihood of a 
pirate. 

Other sins, as usual, followed in the train of 
this low vice, and in a few years he was, to all 
appearance, irretrievably ruined. 

O, beware of the use of profane language, 
and of every sinful, idle, indelicate word. Re- 
member that God hears every thing you say, 
and you can not give utterance to a sinful or 
an impure word without destroying the delicacy 
of your feelings, and paving the way for your 
descent to ruin. 

There is often conversation, among boys, of 



304 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

an indelicate nature ; conversation which you 
would be very unwilling that your father or 
mother should hear. Without great care you 
will in early life get your mind so poisoned and 
corrupted in this way, that it will be a calamity 
to you as long as you live. You will, during 
all the years of your manhood, have cause to 
mourn that such impure words and thoughts 
ever entered your mind. There is hardly any 
thing I have written in this book which I deem 
so important to your welfare and happiness as 
a caution upon this subject. You can not be 
too careful to avoid all such words and thoughts. 
I do entreat you, with the utmost earnestness, 
never to utter a word or an idea, which you 
would not be willing to repeat to your parents. 
You can now form no conception of the dread- 
ful consequences of having an impure mind. 
It would be a far less calamity for you to lose 
a foot, or a hand, or an eye, than to lose delicacy 
and purity of mind. 

When I think of the temptations to which 
you are exposed, in this respect ; when I think 
of the bad boys, with corrupt hearts, you must 
inevitably meet, and the conversation you must 
almost unavoidably hear, I know not how, with 
sufficient earnestness, to warn you of your dan- 
ger. If you are ever present where there is 



TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 305 

conversation of this nature, escape if you pos- 
sibly can. Resolve that you will not listen to 
that which conscience tells you to be wrong. 
Your conscience will be very faithful upon this 
subject. It warns loudly and earnestly when- 
ever you approach the region of impropriety. 
If you allow yourself in this sin, you will not do 
it ignorantly, and you will suffer for it as long 
as you live. Many a Christian has been una- 
ble, even to a dying hour, to efface from his 
mind the corrupt impressions left there by im- 
pure boys. 

If you have any associate addicted to impro- 
prieties of this kind, avoid him as you would 
the plague. Resolve that you will, at all haz- 
ards, break away from such influences. Let no 
temptation, be it ever so powerful, induce you 
to allow yourself in any sin of this kind. Ask 
yourself, when exposed to any language of an 
improper kind, Should I be willing to repeat 
this conversation to our assembled family, at 
the supper table ? Do not listen to any stories, 
do not permit any conversation in your hear- 
ing, which has any indelicate allusions. 

I have thus, in this and in the preceding 
chapters, enumerated the traits of character 
which a Christian child ought to endeavor to 



306 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

acquire. One who conscientiously and per- 
severingly aims at acquiring them, will be con- 
tinually advancing in all that is excellent and 
praiseworthy ; and in the exercise of the ami- 
able, gentle, humble, pure, and holy spirit, which 
the gospel enjoins, will be a blessing to himself 
and to all who know him. 



CHAPTER XII 



CONCLUSION, 



The counsels which this volume contains 
are intended to guide you in your duties while 
you remain under the parental roof. The years 
of your childhood are passing rapidly away, and 
they will soon be gone forever. 

If you follow the counsels and injunctions 
which have been given you in the preceding 
chapters, the years of your childhood will pass 
happily. Your parents, brothers and sisters 
will love you. All who know you will regard 
you with a kind and friendly interest. You 
will feel an inward peace and satisfaction that 
will be a constant joy and blessing. Thus the 
years of your childhood will glide smoothly 
and peacefully away. 

But soon you must leave parents, brothers, 
and sisters, and enter upon the duties and cares 
of life almost alone. How affecting will be the 
hour, when your footsteps turn from your father's 
dwelling, from your mother's care, to seek a 



308 



THE CHILD AT HOME. 




LEAVING HOME 



new home among 
strangers ! You 
now can not con- 
ceive the feelings 
which will press 
upon you as your 
father takes your 
hand to bid you the 
parting farewell, 
and your mother 
endeavors to hide 
her tears, as you 
depart from her 
watchful eye, to 
meet the temptations and sorrows of life. Your 
heart will then be full. Tears will fill your 
eyes. Emotion will choke your voice. 

You will then reflect upon all the scenes of 
your childhood with feelings which you never 
had before. Every unkind word that you have 
uttered to your parents — every unkind look 
that you have given them, will cause you the 
sincerest sorrow. If you have any generous 
feeling remaining in your bosom, you will long 
to fall upon your knees and ask your parents' 
forgiveness for every pang that you may have 
caused their hearts. 

The hour when you leave your home, and all 



CONCLUSION. 309 



its joys, will be such an hour as you never have 
passed before. The feelings which will then 
oppress your heart, will remain with you for 
weeks and months. You will often, in the pen- 
sive hour of evening, sit down and weep, as 
you think of parents and home far away. Oh, ^ 
how cold will seem the love of others, compared 
with a mother's love ! How often will your 
thoughts fondly return to joys which have for- 
ever fled ! Again and again will you think 
over the years that are past. Every recollec- 
tion of affection and obedience will awaken joy 
in your heart. Every remembrance of ingrat- 
itude will awaken repentance and remorse. 

O, then, think now of the time when you 
must bid father and mother, brothers and sis- 
ters, farewell. Think of the time when you 
must leave the fireside around which you have 
spent so many pleasant evenings, and go out 
into the wide world, with no other dependence 
than the character which you have formed at 
home. If this character be good, if you possess 
amiable and obliging and generous feelings, you 
may soon possess a home of your own, when 
the joys of your childhood will in some degree 
be renewed. And if you will pass your days 
in the service of God, imitating the character 
of the Savior, and cherishing the feelings of pen- 



310 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

itence and love which the Bible requires, you 
will soon be in that happy home which is never 
to be forsaken. There, are joys from which 
you never will be separated. There, are friends, 
angels in dignity, and spotless in purity, in 
whose loved society you will find joys such as 
you never experienced while on earth. 

Once when a son was leaving the roof of a pi- 
ous father, to go out into the wide world to meet 
its temptations, and to battle with its storms, 
his heart was oppressed with the many emo- 
tions which were struggling there. The day 
had come in which he was to leave the fireside 
of so many enjoyments ; the friends endeared 
to him by so many associations — so many acts 
of kindness. He was to bid adieu to his moth- 
er, that loved, loved benefactor, who had pro- 
tected him in sickness, and rejoiced with him in 
health. He was to leave a father's protection, 
to go forth and act without an adviser, and rely 
upon his own unaided judgment. He w T as to 
bid farewell to brothers and sisters, no more to 
see them but as an occasional visitor at his pa- 
ternal home. Oh, how cold and desolate did 
the wide world appear ! How did he hesitate 
from lanching forth to meet its tempests and its 
storms ! 

But the hour had come for him to go ; and 



CONCLUSION. 311 



he must suppress his emotions, and triumph 
over his reluctance. He went from room to 
room, looking, as for the last time, upon those 
scenes, to which imagination would so often re- 
cur, and where it would love to linger. The 
well-packed trunk was in the entry, waiting the 
arrival of the stage. Brothers and sisters were 
moving about, hardly knowing whether to smile 
or to weep. The father sat at the window, 
humming a mournful air, as he was watching 
the approach of the stage which was to bear 
his son away to take his place far from home, 
in the busy crowd of a bustling world. The 
mother, with all the indescribable emotions of a 
mother's heart, was placing in a small bundle a 
few little comforts such as none but a mother 
could think of, and, with most generous resolu- 
tion, endeavoring to preserve a cheerful coun- 
tenance, that, as far as possible, she might pre- 
serve her son from unnecessary pain in the hour 
of departure. 

" Here, my son," said she, " is a pair of stock- 
ings, which will be soft and warm for your 
feet. I have run the heels for you, for I am 
afraid you will not find any one who will quite 
fill a mother's place." 

The poor boy was overflowing with emotion, 



312 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

and did not dare to trust his voice with an at- 
tempt to reply. 

" I have put a little piece of cake here, for 
you may be hungry on the road, and I will put 
it in the top of the bundle, so that you can get 
it without any difficulty. And in this needle- 
book I have put up a few needles and some 
thread, for you may at times want some little 
stitch taken, and you will have no mother or 
sister to go to." 

The departing son could make no reply. He 
could restrain his emotion only by silence. At 
last the rumbling of the wheels of the stage was 
heard, and the four horses were reined up at the 
door. The boy endeavored, by activity, in see- 
ing his trunk and other baggage properly placed, 
to gain sufficient fortitude to enable him to artic- 
ulate his farewell. He, however, strove in vain. 
He took his mother's hand. The tear glistened 
for a moment in her eye, and then silently rolled 
down her cheek. He struggled with all his en- 
ergy to say good-bye, but he could not. In un- 
broken silence he shook her hand, and then in 
silence received the adieus of brothers and sis- 
ters, as one after another took the hand of their 
departing companion. He then took the warm 
hand of his warm-hearted father. His father 
attempted to smile, but it was the struggling 



CONCLUSION. 313 



smile of feelings which would rather have 
vented themselves in tears. For a moment he 
said not a word, but retained the hand of his 
son, as he accompanied him out of the door to 
the stage. After a moment's silence, pressing 
his hand, he said, " My son, you are now leav- 
ing us ; you may forget your father and your 
mother, your brothers and your sisters, but, oh, 
do not forget your God !" 

The stage door closed upon the boy. The 
crack of the driver's whip was heard, and the 
rumbling wheels bore him rapidly away from 
all the privileges and all the happiness of his 
early home. His feelings, so long restrained, 
now gave way, and, sinking back upon his seat, 
he enveloped himself in his cloak, and burst into 
tears. 

Hour after hour the stage rolled on. Pas- 
sengers entered and left ; but the boy — perhaps 
I ought rather to call him the young man — was 
almost insensible to every thing that passed. 
He sat, in sadness and in silence, in the corner 
of the stage, thinking of the loved home he had 
left. Memory ran back through all the years 
of his childhood, lingering here and there, with 
pain, upon an act of disobedience, and recalling 
an occasional word of unkindness. All his life 
seemed to be passing in review before him, from 



314 THE CHILD AT HOME. 



the first years of his conscious existence, to the 
hour of his departure from his home. Then 
would the parting words of his father ring in his 
ears. He had always heard the morning and 
evening prayer. He had always witnessed the 
power of religion exemplified in all the duties 
of life. And the undoubted sincerity of a 
father's language, confirmed as it had been by 
years of corresponding practice, produced an 
impression upon his mind too powerful ever to 
be effaced — " My son, you may forget father 
and mother, you may forget brothers and sis- 
ters, but, oh, do not forget your God." The 
words rung in his ears. They entered his 
heart. Again and again his thoughts ran back 
through the years he had already passed, and 
the reviving recollections brought fresh floods 
of tears. But still his thoughts ran on to his 
father's parting words, " Forget not your God." 
He resolved that in whatever circumstances 
he might afterwards be placed, he would never, 
never forget them. 

It was midnight before the stage stopped, to 
give him a little rest. He was then more than 
a hundred miles from home. But still his fa- 
ther's words were ringing in his ears. He was 
conducted up several flights of stairs to a cham- 



CONCLUSION. 



315 




THE HOTEL. 



ber in a crowded hotel. After a short prayer, 
he threw himself upon the bed, and endeavored 
to obtain a little sleep. But his excited imag- 
ination, even in his dreams, went back to the 
home he had left. Again he was seated by the 
fireside. Again he heard the soothing tones of 
his kind mother's voice, and sat by his father's 
side. In the vagaries of his dream, he again 
went through the scene of parting, and wept in 
his sleep as he bade adieu to brothers and sis- 



316 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

ters, and heard a father's parting advice, " Oh, 
my son, forget not your God." 

But little refreshment could be derived from 
such sleep. And indeed he had been less than 
an hour upon his bed, before some one knocked 
at the door, and placed a lamp in his room, say- 
ing, " It is time to get up, sir ; the stage is al- 
most ready to go." He hastily rose from his 
bed, and after imploring a blessing upon him- 
self, and fervently commending to God his far- 
distant friends, now quietly sleeping in that 
happy home which he had left forever, he 
hastened down stairs, and soon again was rap- 
idly borne on by the fleet horses of the mail- 
coach. 

It was a clear autumnal morning. The stars 
shone brightly in the sky, and the thoughts of 
the lonely wanderer were irresistibly carried to 
that home beyond the stars, and to that God 
whom his father had so affectingly entreated 
him not to forget. He succeeded, however, in 
getting a few moments of troubled sleep, as the 
stage rolled on ; but his thoughts were still re- 
verting, whether asleep or awake, to the home 
left far behind. Just as the sun was going 
down by the western hills, at the close of the 
day, he alighted from the stage, in the village 



CONCLUSION. 317 



of strangers, in which he was to find his new 
home. 

There was not an individual in this place 
that he had ever seen before. Many a pensive 
evening did he pass, thinking of absent friends. 
Many a lonely walk did he take, while his 
thoughts were far away among the scenes of 
his childhood. And when the winter evenings 
came, with the cheerful blaze of the fireside, 
often did he think, with a sigh, of the loved and 
happy group encircling his father's fireside, and 
sharing those joys he had left forever. 

But a father's parting words did not leave his 
mind. There they remained. And they, in 
connection with other events, rendered effect- 
ual by the Spirit of God, induced him to en- 
deavor to consecrate his life to his Maker's 
service. In the hopes of again meeting belov- 
ed parents and friends in that home, which 
gilds the paradise above, he found that solace 
which could nowhere else be obtained, and was 
enabled to go on in the discharge of the duties 
of life, with serenity and peace. 

Reader, you must soon leave your home, and 
leave it forever. The privileges and the joys 
you are now partaking, will soon pass away. 
And when you have gone forth into the wide 
world, and feel the want of a father's care, and 



318 THE CHILD AT HOME. 

of a mother's love, then will all the scenes you 
have passed through, return freshly to your 
mind, and the remembrance of every unkind 
word, or look, or thought, will give you pain. 
Try, then, to be an affectionate and obedient 
child. Cultivate those virtues which will pre- 
pare you for usefulness and happiness in your 
maturer years, and above all, make it your ob- 
ject to prepare for that happy home above, 
where sickness can never enter, and sorrow 
can never come. 



